The Game Is On
by Jaiime95
Summary: When her Father's dark past finally caught up to him, Ellen Harper found herself at the center of Moriarty's revenge plot. In a race against time and explosives, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson will have to solve the case before a kidnap becomes a murder. The game, is on! Set at the beginning of S1EP3 - The Great Game. Slowburn Sherlock/OC.
1. The Great Game - Part One

**The Great Game- Part One**

"Annabeth Harper, if you don't get out of my bathroom right now, I'm going to come in there and rip your dripping wet, naked arse out and drag you into the lobby without an article of clothing." Ellen shouted angrily. There was no response, so again Ellen pounded her fist against the wooden door until she got a response.

"Alright, alright. I heard ya. Just bugger off for five minutes." Beth shouted back as the shower continued to sporadically spurt out hot water. The old pipes clunked and groaned only infuriating Ellen more. Looking down at her watch she began to let panic set in. Monday mornings were the worst and considering she still smelt terribly of last night's half a dozen glasses of 'family wines' she needed that bathroom far more than her sister.

From experience there was really no point trying to force Beth to hurry up when she was in the bathroom. The girl was painfully slow and had been so her entire teenage years. Ellen had hoped that maybe as they grew older the bickering and fighting would come to an end but really it just got more fickle. Actually, that was a lie. Things had been relatively good between them. Two weeks ago Ellen had her flat to herself, with no pesky sibling in sight. Then Beth had had some falling out with her musician boyfriend at the time and ta-da she wound up right back where she always did; back in Ellen's humble yet shabby abode. Now all she was good for was eating the last of the expensive rocky-road ice cream and leaving dirty dishes around the place. Oh and stealing the all hot water too.

Unfortunately, Ellen didn't have time to stand around and mope about how her kindness had never been rewarded. Instead she was more frustrated over the fact that Greg Lestrade had sent her a text at six in the morning, begging if she could come down to the precinct by seven-thirty, all chipper to spend her day psycho analyzing the newest load of wack-jobs to be entered into the system. Being a Forensic Psychologist sounded much more interesting on paper.

So with ten minutes left until she had to leave, Ellen attempted to make herself half presentable with no mirror and no knowledge of the terrible nest that her frizzy locks had tangled themselves into while she slept. She quickly slid open the wardrobe door and yanked forth a white blouse, black pencil skirt and matching blazer and finally a pair of uncomfortable-as-hell pointed toe pumps.

"Beth, honestly, just let me grab my deodorant. I smell like death." Ellen shouted as the shaking pipes stopped. The door to the bathroom quickly flew open and out Beth chucked Ellen's deodorant, brush and make-up bag.

"Now seriously." Beth poked her head around the door, hair neatly up in a towel, "Bugger off!"

"You're a life saver you know that right." Inspector Lestrade beamed as Ellen strode in, morning coffees in hand.

"For the coffee or for analyzing the crazies?" she said with a smirk, taking out her own drink and sipping it slightly. Lestrade took the cardboard pallet, with his, from her and the two walked side by side into the building. They hastily made their way to his office where Lestrade collapsed into his chair and began to rummage through his desk drawers.

"Ah-ha!" he exclaimed, pulling out a yellow manila folder and dumping it in front of Ellen, "This is for you."

"I'm guessing it's the glorious reason why you dragged me out of bed so early?" she said with a coy glance.

"Yeah…" Lestrade cringed, rubbing the back of his neck, "You missed all the drama."

"I've only been out of the office for three days. How much drama could we get since Friday?" Ellen frowned as she took the file off the desk and opened it to skim read. The files said something briefly about the next three cases she needed to take on, not a single one seemed all that urgent.

"Try a house on Baker Street exploded."

"Exploded?" Ellen said with confusion.

"But here's the catch. At first we thought it was a gas leak, but we found a strongbox inside. The bomb squad is opening it as we speak."

"Interesting." Ellen nodded, eyes falling back to her paper work, "I still don't understand why I'm in this early though?"

"I may have bluffed a little." Lestrade said with a weak grin, "I just wanted some decent company around, considering the lack of it we have here."

"So you asked me to come in early, so you could have a chat?" Ellen said, a skeptical tone to her voice.

"When you say it like that, it sounds much worse." Greg grimaced.

"Well, if you don't mind me dosing off at random intervals of the day, I'll say we're even." Ellen smiled moving towards the office door, gripping the handle.

"You've got yourself a deal." Lestrade said with a nod, so Ellen took her files and left, off to her own little desk in the corner of the precinct.

The two people you could always count on being early though, was Sally Donovan and Phillip Anderson. Despite the fact that the two had been exposed engaging in an affair many months back, they insisted that nothing had happened. Not that Ellen would ever say it to their faces, but you didn't exactly have to be a genius to know that the two were going out for more than just a pint after of work. Before the little scandal came to light, the two had had (what Ellen could only describe as) eye sex in front of her, on multiple occasions. Yet they remained as unfazed as ever and were almost inseparable throughout most cases.

"You know… I think I saw some drool coming out of Lestrade's mouth when you left." Sally jeered as Ellen walked past her desk and towards her own. Ellen stopped and sighed, turning to face Sally with a polite smile.

"Always one for the pleasantries, Sally."

"You know it." Sally got to her feet, walking with Ellen back to her desk. Ellen noticed that Sally look particularly frustrated today, more than usual. Holmes must have been coming in.

"You look excited today." She prodded.

"Don't you start!" Sally frowned as they stopped by the water cooler, reaching down to get herself a drink. There was a familiar shuffling of feet and surely enough Anderson bumbled over, with particularly grey bags under his eyes.

"You too?" Sally asked him as he let his head meet the wall.

"As soon as I saw it on the news, I thought 'Great! What array of insults will he bring with him today?'" Phillip groaned.

"And that is why I keep my big mouth shut and stick to my corner." Ellen smirked at the deflating stances the two had fallen into.

Everyone in the precinct hated dealing with Sherlock Holmes. She'd stood by this water-cooler many times and let people bitch and complain about this apparently terrible excuse for a human being. Ellen considered herself very lucky for two reasons. Firstly she had never met the man and in her line of profession wouldn't have much need to. Analysing the mental wellbeing of people before they went on trial meant she spent more time in the courtrooms than the offices of Scotland Yard. Secondly, Ellen was entirely convinced that this man had been blown out of proportion, as his skill probably had. Sally once scoffed at the fact he had started raving about having some 'mind palace' of stored data, that the guy literally used his brain like a hard-drive adding and deleting knowledge. That seemed far-fetched, even for the person that dealt with sociopaths on a daily basis. So for once, her job actually aided her in something real life.

"You going to drink that?" Anderson suddenly spoke, pulling Ellen from her thoughts. The coffee in her hand had Anderson foaming at the mouth.

"Urgh… no." she shook her head and held it out, he needed it much more than she did.

"Although, next time I see John, I've got to thank him for creating that blog. If there is one redeeming thing in the world, it is the knowledge that the prick didn't know that the solar system existed." Sally said with a benevolent smirk.

"What blog?" Anderson questioned, taking a long swig of the coffee. Sally instantly dug into her pocket and pulled forth her phone, loading the infamous page. Phillip took it from her and started scrolling through, instantly enthralled.

"Oh that's great." He exclaimed after a minute of snickering to himself.

"You want to take a look?" he held the phone out for Ellen to read, which she turned down.

"I think I'll keep my knowledge of Mr. Holmes as it is. Minimal. You probably have to know the guy to get all the jokes or something anyway." She explained, leaving to two to gawp like children over John Watson's little blog.

Slowly people began to fill the office, the news of the Baker Street Explosion hummed through the morning conversations. Then the familiar drum of scanners and printers began. Soon enough the precinct was buzzing with life and Ellen got stuck into the work she was accustomed to. But something about that blog kept popping back into her mind.

She was curious. There was a lot of mystery around what the resident 'consulting detective' got up to. Ellen was starting to think that she was the only person in the building that hadn't run into him on one occasion or the other. At the least she wanted to know what he looked like; appearances said a lot about a person. If the stories about him were true, then her observation skills weren't even on par with his. But that didn't mean that they weren't half decent.

So secretly she glanced around to ensure no one was paying attention to her, of course everyone else was far too busy. She opened the web page and quickly searched for 'John Watson blog'. Instantly she found herself scrolling through the archives. The first few posts weren't of any interest, but then Dr. Watson encountered Holmes for the first time and everything heated up. It was like she was a caveman discovering fire; everything about it seemed bizarre but brilliant at the same time. She flicked through the pages with eager clicks until she found herself up to date on everything Holmes and Watson related. Who needed gossip magazines when there was this beauty on the web!

It seemed oddly impossible that any of the cases really happened, but judging from Sally and Anderson's reaction, every last bit of it was true. Plus she knew that they had to get their outstanding reputation from somewhere. To say the least, she was impressed and that was something that Ellen rarely ever was. If she had never met the sleuthing duo she probably would have held them with that same high esteem for the rest of her life.

"Ellen…" Lestrade's voice echoed through the place, a mixture of annoyance and frustration. Her head shot up from the screen and she meekly smiled back as he called her over to his office.

"What's up?" she asked in the middle of the hallway as people pushed past her. Lestrade stood wedged between his office and the isle outside.

"Urhhhh…." He paused, "Well, take a look for yourself." He pointed towards his window. Ellen frowned in confusion and brushed past him to see what he was so adamant about showing her. The moment her eyes focused on the ground below she felt a fury build in her belly, much akin to the one she had this morning.

"I'm going to kill her." She drawled out of a locked jaw.

"I thought you should probably go down and get her to stop before they send someone out there who'll arrest her…" Lestrade winced, "Last time they cuffed her for bashing an office on the head with a protest sign, a-la Tracy Turnblad style."

"Going…" she huffed and turned on herself, hastily making her way down to the scene going on downstairs. As she stormed towards the lift, hell bent on her sister's demise, she shoulder barged a particularly tall man and fell to the ground.

"Watch where you're going moron." She exclaimed as another hand reached out to help her to her feet. She looked up to see the hand belonged to none other than John Watson and she had literally run into his partner, Sherlock Holmes.

"I could tell you the same thing." Holmes said under his breath, dusting off his coat and adjusting his scarf needlessly. Her breath hitched as if the royal family were standing before her.

"You must be Holmes and Watson." Ellen said dumbly, "Pleasure." She held her hand out to shake. John Watson shook it, but Holmes merely stared at it like it was diseased.

"Sorry." John apologized for his friend, "He does that a lot."

"I've heard." Ellen nodded with a slight eye roll, pulling her hand in and straightening up.

"I haven't seen you around here before, are you new?" John asked.

"Alright then… while you two stand around and exchange meaningless small talk, I'm going to go speak to Lestrade and do something far more productive." Sherlock interrupted and walked away, swishing his coat dramatically behind him. Ellen had remembered a few of the blog articles mentioning Sherlock's flair with creative exits. She wasn't sure whether to be offended or impressed.

"Urmmm…" Ellen backtracked, "I'm Ellen. Ellen Harper. I'm in the forensic psychology department. So not new, just mainly doing my job around the court area."

"Oh, wow that's exciting." John tried to be polite, tilting his head slightly and shifting his weight onto one foot.

"Actually, it's really not." Ellen chuckled slightly.

"ELLEN!" Lestrade's voice boomed again, she had forgotten about her sister and the forming mayhem downstairs.

"One second!" she shouted back, facing John, "Sorry we couldn't chat more. My sister is currently downstairs instigating a picket, so I've got to go deal with that." And with that she raced off without so much as a goodbye. John just stood awkwardly as she exits and gave her a little wave, which she didn't notice. There was far more pressing issues at hand. Maybe not super sleuthing issues like Holmes was dealing with, but certainly issues that needed her urgent attention.

On the street level, there was Beth, megaphone in hand and that ex-boyfriend of hers by her side. She was surrounded by a few others, who were angrily shouting and jumping about. This was just great!

"What are you doing?!" she screamed, ripping Beth's sign from her hand.

"We're protesting." She declared smugly.

"I can see that." Ellen waved around the sign dramatically, "I meant with him." She pointed to Beth's latest ex-boyfriend. His name was Dave and he was literally the worst dude she'd got with yet. He was a part-time trolley collector at the local supercenter as well as a failed musician and terrible spoken word poet. He had a mouth on him like a sailor and a body odor that could gag a maggot. His brown curly hair hadn't been brushed in at least a month and was starting to form dreadlocks on it's own. Ellen didn't understand how Beth had fallen in with this guy because he was a hard 4. Her sister however was at least an 8 on a bad day, 9 and above on any other. Then again, 'love' did make people do stupid things. The only logical explanation was that Beth had somehow gotten stuck with permanent beer goggles altering her perception of the male race. _Only. Logical. Explanation_.

"He came by this morning and apologized for breaking up. We had this really great heart to heart and so everything's back on." She giggled with glee and grasped Dave's hand lovingly. Ellen could have been sick and it wasn't just Dave's smell to blame.

"Right…" she tried to comprehend her sister's stupidity, "Well, you need to leave here. Now."

"We are expressing out basic human rights." Beth revved the crowd. They jeered behind her.

"No, you're moping about because you think they unfairly dismissed you when tried to hold a rave inside a police department."

"How many times do I have to say it? It was only supposed to be a little get together!" Beth declared angrily, wrestling Ellen for her sign. Ellen's firm grip pulled it back to her side.

"Right, well active protests aren't going to get you your job back."

"I tried every other way." Beth said, "This is my final option."

"Just go home Beth." Ellen shook her head, tired of arguing, "All of this is ridiculous waste of time."

"That's not what Mum would have said." Beth sudden spat out, catching Ellen off guard. She tensed up where she stood and dropped her gaze away, "She would have said to try and fix what I had done, not run away from it and pretend it never happened. It seems you never were any good at listening to her advice."

"Don't you dare lecture me about what Mum would have wanted." Ellen snapped back, her jaw tense and her brows furrowed, "Besides I only came down to tell you to leave before they said people down to force you to leave. My mistake for trying to do right by you."

"Let them come!" Beth threw her arms wide open and stepped backwards from her sister, her gaze never faltering. Ellen turned away and slowly returned to her desk upstairs. The elevator couldn't quite go fast enough so she found herself eagerly tapping her foot, her arms wrapped around her waist and her fists balled. She needed to get away, from Beth and from work, so when the doors to the elevator opened and she found Lestrade, Holmes and Watson waiting to enter she seized her opportunity.

"Everything sorted?" Lestrade asked. Ellen nodded coherently.

"Do you mind if I take my work home?" she lowered her voice, "I'm suddenly not feeling all too well. I probably ate something funny."

"Urghh… yeah, sure." Lestrade nodded, noticing the droop in Ellen's expression, "Is everything alright?" He whispered so that Holmes and Watson couldn't hear.

"It will be." Ellen reassured him, moving forward and letting the three rush off to wherever was so urgent.

Beth must have taken Ellen's advice, because when she had rounded up her things and started walking towards her car, the mob was gone. That slightly lay her mind to rest, but she just couldn't get over the fact that Beth had the audacity to bring up their mother. She knew that it was a touchy subject even at the best of times, so to bring it up during a fight was simply tacky.

Ellen strut quickly, as the cold nipped at her ankles. She was determined not to let her day be ruined. Her car was parked a few blocks away in an almost abandoned underground car park. She found this hidden gem 6 months ago, merely by chance and it had meant that she escaped the morning struggle for parking. There was only ever two cars inside the place; her red Ford Focus and a black SUV. She never saw the SUV's owner her entire time parking there. The rest of the space was filled with lines for another twenty or so cars, but she never used any of them.

She walked down the slopped entryway, careful not to slip, and jumped into her car. Instantly she felt herself relax and melt into her seat. Not only was it much warmer inside, but she could shut out the rest of the world and only had to deal with herself. It was like today never even happened.

She put the keys into the ignition and let the radio play, when her eyes suddenly caught something peculiar on the seat next to her. There sat a phone with a bright pink case. She had never seen it before and assumed it had to belonged to Beth. She picked it up and turned it over in her hand, lighting up the front screen. There was no indication that this belonged to Beth; it had the generic home background like it was just out of the box. She went to put it down into the cup holder when it began to buzz in her hand. The screen lit up with the caller ID of 'Dave'. Ellen felt an odd wave of happiness wash over her; she never got Dave alone to speak to him ever and now was her chance to berate the hell out of him. She pressed answer and quickly put it to her ear.

"Well, well Dave..." She said in a menacing way. There was a weird chuckle on the other side.

"_Did you like that?_" the voice replied, "_I tried to work out a way to get you to pick up the phone willingly and I suppose I hit the right nerve!_"

"Who is this?" Ellen suddenly paused, slightly wigged out. The man on the other end swallowed and continued.

"_Look in your glove box._" He said simply. Ellen dropped the phone from her ear, almost ready to hang up, but another part of her was curious to see who this person was. It clearly wasn't Dave. So she brought it up to her ear and leaned over to the open glove box.

"What's this all abo –," she went to say as her eyes caught sight of what exactly sat in front of her. Her whole body tensed up and her voice caught in her throat.

"_Don't try and run._" The man commanded, "_It'll blow up before you can even wrench the door open._"

Ellen was still frozen staring back at the bomb that was intricately wired into her car, with a timer right at the front. It was set for 12 hours. At least the countdown on it hadn't begun yet.

"What do you want?" she managed to say. Again, the chuckling continued.

"_Just to test a few people…_" he giggled, before his voice became sterner, "_Oh and there's an ear piece under the visor. Put it on._"

Ellen lowered the phone to her side as she pulled down the car's sun visor to retrieve the piece. It fell gently into her lap and she put it on the free ear. It beeped and the man's voice echoed from it again as the call on the phone ended itself.

"_Well that's much better. Now we have some real work to do._" He said cheerfully, "_I need you to call someone, it's the only number programmed inside the phone. I'll instruct you what to say and if you think about changing anything… BOOM!_"


	2. The Great Game - Part Two

Authors Note: 

So I'm hoping to update every Sunday, although this chapter is coming a bit earlier just because I want to hook some more readers in. The Sherlock fanfic page is nuts with new stories every minute which makes it very easy to lose good ones from the first couple of pages within a day. Forgive me if I am tardy with update, I'll try not to be, but writing Sherlock fiction is not an easy feat!

I'd love if you'd be courteous enough to leave a review, constructive or otherwise. Don't forget to check out my polyvore account (same username) for some of the outfits the characters will (and do) wear throughout this story. ENJOY!

* * *

**The Great Game – Part Two**

Sherlock, John and Lestrade all filed out of the taxi. John and Lestrade had no idea where Sherlock was taking them or why they had to stop back at Baker Street, but neither of them dare question the sleuth at work. Sherlock moved quickly until he was standing outside the door to 221C, shouting at Mrs. Hudson to bring him keys.

Shortly after the woman came bumbling down the hallway, jingling the keys to find the right one for the lock. Sherlock began to inspect the padlock of the door carefully.

"You had a look, didn't you, Sherlock. When you first came to see about your flat." Mrs. Hudson stated. Ignoring her comment Sherlock spoke,

"The door's been opened recently."

"No, can't be." Mrs. Hudson shook her head, "That's the only key."

She opened the padlock and pulled it off as Sherlock selected another key and put it into the keyhole.

"I can't get anyone interested in this flat." She rambled, "It's the damp, I expect. That's the curse of basements."

Sherlock turned the key and pulled the door open, quickly walking inside with John and Lestrade in tow. Mrs. Hudson continued to talk but it seemed that everyone took little, if any, notice to her. Once inside Sherlock moved to find a certain room, the one he knew to match the image sent to him in the text. Opening its door slowly he stared in ominously.

A pair of sneakers sat neatly in the middle of the room. Nothing else, just them.

"Shoes?" John questioned, moving in cautiously with Lestrade. Sherlock went to move forward before John cautioned him, "He's a bomber, remember."

Sherlock paused for a moment, taking the warning in before resuming his efforts to inspect the shoes. He crouched down, putting his hands gently on the floor, to steady himself while leaning forward. He lowered his body closer, his nose almost touching them, when suddenly the phone in his pocket began to ring. His heart jumped in its place as he stood up straightly and looked at the phone, which read, 'NUMBER BLOCKED'. He answered the call, placing it on loudspeaker. John and Lestrade moved closer and perked their ears in concern.

"Hello." Sherlock said softly.

"Hello… sexy." A woman's voice shakily spoke. The men in the room froze, fearing that their ears were deceiving them. This wasn't a hostage call… _was it_?

"Who's this?" Sherlock said in a grim voice. The woman lightly sobbed, before sniffling and continuing,

"I sent you… a little puzzle… just to say… hi."

"Who's talking?" Sherlock asked again.

"I'm not surprised you don't… recognize me." Her breaths were shallow and fearful.

"Why are you crying?" he asked, almost knowing the answer but needing to be sure.

"I'm not…" she sniffled again her voice clearer this time, "I'm not crying, this _stupid bitch_… can't seem to translate… my message very well."

Behind Sherlock, Lestrade's face had dropped. That time when she spoke, she was much more vindictive, angered by the situation she was in. He had heard a similar refrain in someone's voice before. In fact, he had heard it today.

"_Ellen?_" he moved closer to the phone. John and Sherlock looked at him worryingly.

"Looks… like… someone pays attention." She replied. Lestrade took a step back and muttered a curse under his breath, his fingers brushing through his hair in distress, "Twelve hours to… solve my puzzle Sherlock… Or I'm going to be so naughty."

And the phone hung up. The room was filled with silence as the three took in what had just happened.

"The curtain rises…" Sherlock said ambiguously.

"What?" John asked.

"Nothing."

"No, what did you mean?" John insisted. Sherlock stared him down,

"I've been expecting this for some time." He admitted.

"He took one of our own." Lestrade suddenly interrupted. John and Sherlock were hushed again, "Why would he take _her_?"

"I doubt _he_ specifically went after her, probably just the first person from the office he could get his hands on. Also don't dismiss the possibility of the kidnapper being a woman." Sherlock said in response, quite devoid of emotion.

"I shouldn't have let her head out." Lestrade continued, shaking his head.

"You couldn't have known." John replied, "None of us could."

"You need to solve this." Lestrade faced Sherlock and jabbed a finger at his chest. He was putting on a hard exterior and yet his hand betrayed him as it shook, "I need to call her sister."

vvvvvv

There was a police car out the front of the apartment. Beth had been collecting all her stuff to take back to Dave's, while he was at the pub up the road writing a poem for her. He was such a romantic. She noticed the officers get from their car and enter her complex. They'd been out here a lot lately; the Johnson's teenage son (who lived above Ellen and Beth) had a habit of getting into fights and setting things on fire. But when there was a knock at her door, she was only filled with confusion.

Putting down her box and throwing a towel inside it, she went to open the door to find the cops standing there for her.

"I was well within my rights protesting today!" she declared instantly and went to slam the door as a hand shot out and stopped her.

"It's about your sister." One of them shouted out as she tried to force the door closed. She stopped and let go, pulling the door back slowly.

"What about her?" she asked softly, brow furrowed in concern.

"We have reason to believe that she's been kidnapped." The other officer said carefully. Beth's face dropped and she was at a loss for words. Who would take Ellen? Why?

"I don't understand…" she said, looking around, fathoming their statement.

"We need to take you into the precinct, find out when the last time you saw was or any details about her day."

"Yeah, of course." Beth nodded, "Do you mind if I just grab my coat?"

Beth turned abruptly and walked into the room where she had been packing her belongings. She snatched her coat up off the ground and swapped her house slippers for a pair of leather boots. Lastly she grabbed her phone off the bed and stuffed it into her pocket, making her way back out into the living room where the officers were waiting.

Locking the door behind her, she was soon in the back of the police car and on her way to Scotland Yard, for a reason that she had never imagined. She pulled her phone out again and stared at it for a while. She should call their father, he needed to know, even if there wasn't anything he could do. But if she did, it would trudge up more than just worry for him. Beth would have to talk to him… she'd have to small talk. That was something she wasn't ready to do. She wasn't ready to let him back into their lives, or let him know she'd been booted from the force. So she put the phone back away, once they got Ellen back (and they would) she would get her big sister to tell him. Or maybe not… Regardless, it would all be a grand joke in hindsight, something to cringe terribly about. Because if Annabeth Harper was sure about anything, it was that she couldn't lose her sister as well.

Out the front of Scotland Yard, stood Inspector Lestrade. She'd met him on a few occasions when she was at work and even at functions with Ellen, namely the annual Christmas party. He had a sullen look on his face as he saw her. It seemed he was just as worried as she was.

"We'll find her." He said as Beth neared. She nodded blankly, still not having processed the situation entirely.

"Is there anything I can do? I mean I know I'm not officially police anymore, but I could be of some use." She asked anxiously.

"We just need to get some statements, otherwise we've got half the department on it." He let a tight smile appear on his face, trying to comfort her.

"Then let's do this. The quicker we get her home, the happier everyone will be."

vvvvvv

Ellen was still sitting inside her car. After hanging up from talking with Sherlock Holmes she had this rage inside of her and it wasn't the detectives fault in the slightest. She dried all her tears and found the croakiness in her voice had disappeared. More than anything she was just mad. Mad that she had gotten herself into this mess and mad that some lunatic got off on this. But most of all, angered by the fact that she had let herself cry for this guy. She had let him have more control over her than she should have allowed anyone.

Twelve hours. That was all she had for Holmes and Watson to solve this, otherwise the man on the other end of the phone would blow her to kingdom come. Her office job was supposed to keep her away from the actual crime, she was just supposed to analyse people. Since waking up this morning she had dealt with Lestrade's naïve advances, Sally and Anderson's whinging, a rude meeting with Holmes himself, multiple altercations with her sister and now it seemed, a hostage situation. She was not equipped for this level of soap opera drama.

She looked at the time on the dashboard. She'd been in her car for almost an hour now. If she knew Greg Lestrade like she thought she did, he'd have contacted Beth by now. That made the guilt inside of Ellen only grow. As much as she enjoyed fighting with her sister about every minute thing, she loved Annabeth to death. After everything they had been through in the past two years, they were each other's everything. Sometimes Ellen even thought the reason why she hated Dave so much was because he took more of her sister's attention up than she did. Then she would remember the pungent odor that wafted from him every time he put his armpits up and hugged her. No, she definitely was not jealous of Dave Sommersby.

The hours wore on and Ellen found her stomach beginning to rumble. She hadn't eaten anything today besides a piece of toast and a couple of sips of the coffee, which she stupidly handed to Anderson. She should have kept it; she may not have been so hungry as she was now. But it was a welcomed distraction from the ticking bomb inside her car's glove box. She had even left the radio playing to help sooth her nerves. The movies made the hostage situation far more interesting, when really it was just a lot of waiting around and hoping that the person in charge didn't feel like killing you today.

Six hours left and the sun was beginning to set from what she could see at the entrance of the car park. That was all right, she still had six hours. Six hours was pretty long, like a weekend shift in the precinct. Sherlock Holmes had solved cases much faster than six hours. She knew, she'd read the blog. She had to trust that this time would be no different.

And Ellen Harper would be right in assuming that it wasn't. But James Moriarty loved games. He hated being bored. So after creating the ploy to kidnap her, he wasn't about to give her up so quickly. When he extracted a response from those in Sherlock's company, he knew a new pressure would be placed on the sleuth. Moriarty had something up his sleeve, something that would toy with the detective and confuse him to his wit's end.

Three hours and it was finally dark. Now the nerves were really starting to set in. Her hunger was still there but she paid far less attention to it than before. The madness that had been strong in her this morning was becoming something akin to desperation. What was taking him so long? Why wouldn't he just hurry up? She wasn't ready to die; she still had so much in the world to give. Oh, if she was starting to believe clichéd crap like that, she really was getting desperate!

Across town, at 221B Baker Street, Sherlock paced in his apartment. His eye jumped back onto the lense of the microscope as Mrs. Hudson came through the kitchen door with a tray of mugs. As she placed them beside him, he shot back up.

"Poison." He declared.

"What you going on about?" Mrs. Hudson questioned.

"Clostridium Botulinum!" he slammed his hands down onto the table. Mrs. Hudson cringed and left him alone in the kitchen. Sherlock pivoted on his heel to look at John as he entered the living room.

"It's one of the deadliest poisons on the planet!" he stated, as John looked at him blankly, "Carl Powers!"

"Oh wait, are you saying he was murdered?" John tilted his head. Sherlock raced around to where he had hung the laces from the trainers up.

"Remember the shoelaces?" he asked, John nodded, "The boy suffered from eczema. It'd be the easiest thing in the world, to introduce the poison into his medication. Two hours later he comes up to London, the poison takes effect, paralyses the muscles and he drowns."

"What?" John stood up, "How…how come the autopsy didn't pick that up?"

"It's virtually undetectable. Nobody would have been looking for it." Sherlock walked around the table to where his computer sat. He opened it to reveal his own web page forum and began to type into the message box:

**FOUND. Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1978-1989)**

He straightened up and pointed to the laces,

"…But there were still tiny traces of it left inside the trainers from where he put the cream on his feet." He nodded to himself and finished typing:

**Botulinum toxin still present. Apply 211b Baker St.**

"That's why they had to go." He pressed send and stood tall again.

"So how do we let the bomber know?" John asked him.

"Get his attention." He eyed the page on his own blog, nervously waiting, "Stop the clock." He muttered jittery, looking at his watch.

"The killer kept the shoes, all these years." John was trying to deduct something.

"Yes." Sherlock egged him on, "Meaning…?"

"He's our bomber." John stated. As he did the pink phone began to ring. Sherlock scrambled to pick it up and answer the call. The voice sounded firmer then before, it was still the same person, just there was an element of calmness in it.

"Well done, you. Come and get me." Ellen Harper's voice echoed eerily though the speaker.

"Where are you? Tell us where you are." Sherlock said loud and clearly and instantly she blurted out her location, a sigh of relief at the end.

Sherlock called Lestrade as soon as Ms. Harper was off the phone, they had to get the bomb squad out to the underground car park she had given them the location, located near Scotland Yard.

John and Sherlock could relax for the time being. This case was solved and possibly it would be the last they heard from this mysterious bomber. That was until fifteen minutes later Sherlock's actual phone began to ring. It was Lestrade. Sherlock answered, curious to know what the urgency was.

"He blew it up." Was all Lestrade said at first as the sound of sirens wailed behind him. There was an unfamiliar shift in Lestrade's tone. He sounded croaky and exhausted, like he had been screaming until he had almost lost his voice.

"But we played by his rules…" Sherlock glowered. He was slightly angry inside. Why would the bomber go to such extremes only to destroy everything? Where was the fun in that?

"What about the hostage?" John asked over Sherlock's shoulder, immediately worried.

"The whole bottom level's come down." Greg said, "If she's in there, we won't find her for a couple of days." His words sounded empty, void of emotion.

"Geez…" John shook his head, leaning on the fireplace in frustration. Sherlock had to pause to understand what was happening around him. Even though he had succeeded, somehow to everyone else he had failed. But the worst part was that maybe he felt a pang of remorse. Like this woman's death really wasn't necessary. Yes people died everyday, but not like that. Not so alone and afraid. So Sherlock mustered up something unlikely, something he would likely deny if anyone ever brought it up.

"Lestrade…" he said softly, "I am sorry. Really."

"Yeah." Lestrade sounded like he had sniffled, "She was a good… Well, she was just good." And then the phone beeped and Lestrade had hung up.


	3. The Great Game - Part Three

Authors Note:

Thanks for the favourites, follows and reviews! I do appreciate them a lot. So far I've been good with the updating, I'm trying to keep one chapter ahead at any given time. Also, if you haven't seen my profile notes you won't know who I have cast in all the roles.

Ellen Harper- Gugu M'batha Raw

Beth Harper- Kat Graham

Dave Sommersby- Robert Sheehan

Peter Harper- Danny Glover

The rest are already the normal Sherlock cast :) Don't forget to leave a review, they feed my creativity!

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**The Great Game – Part Three**

As she had hung up with Sherlock, Ellen finally felt safe. She knew that this whole ordeal would be coming to an end. One thing was for sure; she'd never be parking in this place again. She waited, but it was a good patience this time, a hopeful one. All until the door to the SUV opened.

This whole time she hadn't even bothered to take notice of it. The glass on it was heavily tinted and it wasn't like she could see in even if she wanted to. So out of this car stepped two masked men, one with a riffle and the other with a pair of cuffs and a bag. She gasped and her heart began to beat fast in its place.

"No…" she whispered, "No, no, no! This is supposed to be over."

One of them ripped her door open and grabbed her by the collar of her shirt. She fell from his grasp onto the ground, as he held her to attach the shackles.

"Please." She pleaded, feeling the water well in her eyes again, "Just let me go!"

"Boss has other plans." The beefy one said, yanking her back to her feet and throwing the bag over her head. She fought him with all her might, kicking and screaming against him as he threw her over his shoulder.

"Shut up, bitch." The other hit her over the head with his gun and then she was silent. Her body went limp at they put her in the back seat of the SUV, buckled her in and left the place. As they drove away, there was a loud and distinctive bang. It shook the ground and rung in the ears of anyone nearby. The sound of Ellen's car exploding in the parking lot. That would throw the cops off their scent for a little while longer.

vvvvvv

Beth had been pacing back and forth inside Ellen's apartment. Every inch of her body ached with nervousness. After she'd gone to the precinct Dave had gone back to find her and called her worried. She explained everything and now there she was, while he sat on the lounge and watched her panic.

"Baby," he got to his feet and held her in a tight embrace, "Chill."

"Chill, Dave? _Chill_?" she shook him off, "My sister's been kidnapped by a crazy serial bomber and all I can do to help is wait around in her apartment and hope that she'll walk in all chipper."

"Beating yourself up isn't making her come back any sooner." Dave said back, a strange malice behind his words. For all his harshness, he was right. It sucked major ass that she couldn't do much, but the one thing that she could do was stay strong. That's what the Harpers did. They had the gold medal in keeping themselves together during tragedy.

"Sit down with me and we'll watch some telly." Dave pulled her by the waist, and they collapsed into the leather couch, his arm still wrapped tenderly around her. As soon as he pressed the on button on the television remote, the preprogramed news channel came up. It was covering the headlines. There'd been another bombing, one a couple of blocks away from where Ellen worked. Beth felt her chest tighten. She sat up straight, snatched the remote and began to frantically turn up the volume.

"_And the biggest headline of the evening, there's been another gas explosion in London today in an underground car park. Currently emergency teams are working to stabilized the five-storey building above. There has been no causality reports as of yet. Although police believe that there was one person inside when the place blew, Ellen Harper age 35, an employee at New Scotland Yard. It's hectic out here as emergency crews try to find one of their own, but as you can see behind me, the rubble and destruction is thick. If Ms. Harper is alive under there, we're all praying for her._"

Beth began to cry. She just stood and ran away from the TV, into the bathroom and wept. She didn't know how long she was in there for. Dave kept trying to coax her out, but she wouldn't have a bar of it. Beth just sat on the cold tiles of her sister's apartment and gave up. There was one person she wanted to be with right now and as much as she appreciated Dave's efforts, she needed someone else to be there for her.

Finally drying her eyes she stood up and walked blankly out from the bathroom back into the living room, Dave trailed in confusion. She headed straight towards the coffee table where her phone sat and picked it up. She dialed the only number she could remember. Beth called for her father.

"Hello, Peter Harper speaking." Her dad spoke, he sounded like he didn't have a clue as to what was going on.

"Daddy…" Beth drawled out, whimpering, "It's Beth."

"Sweetheart…" he became concerned, "What's wrong."

"Have you turned on the news?" Beth asked him ominously. She could hear him them move about trying to get his telly on. There was silence as he saw what Beth could see; the images of the destruction and the picture of Ellen's face. His breathing hitched slightly as he took the information in.

"I need you to come over." Beth finally broke the silence, "Do you need the address?"

"No, I'll be right over." He said stalely.

"I love you. You know that right." Beth found herself crying again.

"I know sweet-pea. I love you too."

When an hour later there was a knock on the door, Beth got to her feet speedily to open it. Standing there, suit and briefcase, was her father. Peter was a rather stern man, he'd learnt to cultivate the perfect hardened exterior. When you work for the government, strength in character got you far. Not Beth, nor Ellen, had any idea how far he was actually up in the ladder but they suspected it was marginally from the top. He had never been out of money to spend.

But the Peter that Beth knew had disappeared momentarily, replaced by a sodden and broken individual. It was really strange to see her father like that. She'd only seen him looking like this one other time, at her mother's funeral. He dropped the bag and reached out for his youngest daughter, wrapping her up in a tight hug. He smelt of his familiar cologne, one that Beth had grown up with. He pulled back and stroked her face gently.

"It's gonna be alright." He cooed as Beth moved away to shut the door. This was a private moment that the rest of the apartment block didn't need to be privy to.

"You saw the images." Beth shook her head, "No one could make it alive from that."

"If anyone could, it's Ellen." Peter said abruptly, "Don't give up until it's over."

"I'm not giving up. I'm just being realistic. I'm not going to work myself up into hoping that she may be alive just to have it all turn out to be a lie." Beth replied, her demeanor shifting. Peter frowned at Beth, speechless. His eyes quickly glanced over to see Dave silently watching on the couch.

"Who's this?" he asked, straightening his coat jacket.

"This is Dave, my boyfriend." Beth smiled as Dave got to his feet and came to shake Peter's hand.

"Does he have a last name?" Peter eyed Dave off. He had recalled Ellen not being very impressed by someone of the same name in a phone conversation a couple of months back.

"Sommersby." Dave neared and the men shook hands.

"Ahh…" Peter said knowingly.

"You and Ellen had been in touch then." Beth said with a slight chuckle and Peter nodded guiltily.

"I'm gonna head out." Dave said after a moment of silence, "Give you and your dad some time to catch up." He grabbed his coat off the back of the dining table.

"Good man." Peter nodded thankfully and clapped him on the back as the boyfriend left. Beth opened the door and he kissed her lightly on the cheek before disappearing into the stairwell of the building. When she turned back, her father had gone into the kitchen and had begun to make some tea. She locked the door once more and came to his side.

"How much do you know?" she asked him. He knew what she meant.

"Well I know about him," Peter pointed, "And I know about you getting fired."

"Ellen promised she wouldn't say anything to you about it." Beth groaned.

"She didn't." Peter tapped the side of his nose. Beth couldn't help but roll her eyes as she grabbed the cups out of the cupboard.

"I should have figured you'd keep an eye on me."

"I don't do it to be nosey." Peter stopped for a moment and looked his daughter dead in the eyes, "I know you like your independence, but I worry about you."

"Except when you worry you hire government agents to watch me." Beth laughed vindictively.

"I know it's a bit unorthodox." Peter tried to laugh with her, but could feel an unspoken tension between the two. It had been a long time since they'd been in the same room, let alone spoken. It was horrible that the only thing that could bring them together was death. That hurt him more than words could describe. Peter pored the tea and then the two moved into the lounge room.

"I want you to know that the next time I see you it won't be because someone we love is hurt." Peter said, placing his teacup on the tea table.

"You only have yourself to blame for that." Beth responded.

"I know that after your mother died I didn't do you or Ellen right. We should have been there together as a family and I was selfish. I thought that if I busied myself in my work that it would all be alright. I should have come to the funeral." Peter admitted. With the news of Ellen and now his confusion he looked greatly dejected.

"Geez dad." Beth scoffed and shook her head, "That's the lamest excuse you could have given me. I didn't care that you two broke up. I wouldn't have cared if you had killed her. I just needed you there and you weren't."

"It can be as lame as it wants, as long as it's the truth." Peter looked Beth in the eyes, watery.

"I called you. I left messages, praying and hoping that you would just come. For weeks after I tried to talk to you and you weren't to be found." Beth ran her fingers through her hair, "I know I called you here, but that doesn't mean that you're forgiven."

"I don't expect your forgiveness for one second. Just a chance at redemption."

"Good. Because I'd like that too."

vvvvvv

When Ellen finally woke again, she found herself bound and gagged to a chair, her earpiece still attached. The more she looked around the more she noticed she was in a small room. She didn't fidget or even try to escape; she just began to examine the place she was in. It wasn't likely she'd get her way out of here with sheer force or even skill, but she had to try. She had learnt some basic self-defense thanks to her overbearing father, but that all went out the window in the past twelve hours. This was an impossible situation, not something that a crash course really covered.

The room was practically empty; all that resided inside was two chairs. One in front of her and the one she was sitting on. The wallpaper was old and peeling. There was piles of dust scattered across the floor, she almost felt inclined to sneeze. Above her sat one flickering fluorescent light, it's buzzing was background music to her clichéd situation. Someone was going to come in soon. Ellen could feel it in her bones. She wasn't sure who, it could be her kidnapper himself, some hired gun or it could be someone throwing food at her. She hadn't eaten for a while now and the moment she let the thought of it creep into her mind her stomach shook violently, aching and groaning for a morsel.

But there was one thing she knew for sure and that was that she couldn't give them satisfaction. Dealing with psychopaths on a daily basis meant that she knew how they worked. She knew the way the processed the world around them and why the interacted with it in the way they did. Ellen Harper knew for a fact that kidnappers looked for a thrill and saw the whole scenario like a game that they could control and exploit at any opportunity. For that reason more than ever, she needed to have courage. She couldn't shed any more tears. She couldn't let the sick son of a bitch win.

"_How do you like the room? Has a rather shabby chic vibe to it, don't you think._"That chilling voice spoke through her earpiece. She should have known he wouldn't meet her face to face. If she ever wanted to get out of this situation alive there was no way in hell that she'd be allowed to identify him. She knew he was a male and that's the way he would keep it.

"It needs a good shag rug to finish it off." Ellen bit back, her words whistling out of gritted teeth.

"_I'll have to give a note to my decorator_." The kidnapper toyed further. Ellen stayed quiet and waited for what he would throw at her next. After an abrupt clearing of the throat he continued on, "_I suppose you're wondering what I'm going to make you do next but I think leaving you in suspense is far more intriguing. But how about a little riddle to keep you thinking?_"

"How about you stop playing stupid games and let me go." Ellen said as she began to pry her hands from the rope binding them. Instantly the door to her cell swung open and in walked a man, clad in only black, with a black ski mask covering his face. She froze for a moment as their eyes met, wondering whether he was here to kill her or not. As her eyes drifted from his gaze she found herself staring at the sharp knife in his left hand. That was definitely intended for her.

"_Ooooh. Don't be a spoil sport._" The man's voice suddenly sprung to life again as his chuckle deafened one ear, "_Ms. Harper I'd like you to meet Günther. He's here to ensure that you stay put in that chair of yours. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes I was about to tell you a riddle. _

"_A man is trapped in a dungeon, in a castle, in a far away land. There are two doors in this dungeon each with possible exits on the other side; but there are no windows or secret entrances and nothing but thick stonewalls all around. He can't dig his way out even if he tried. The first door leads to a room with a fire-breathing dragon but also another door with the way out. But the second leads to a hallway of magnifying glasses that magnify the sun's rays and will burn to a crisp if he steps foot inside. He has no weapons to defeat the dragon and nothing to protect him from the sun. So… how does he get out?_"

Ellen listened intensely and when he was finished the silence resumed. It had to be a test of sorts, something that would pay out eventually. But at the same time it could just be the ramblings of the man's insanity. It was hard to tell. One thing was for sure that the answer was simple. She had heard it before, albeit a different variation, but still the same answer.

"He leaves through the second door, when night falls." She replied, her voice echoing through the room. Günther looked at her oddly, as if he thought _she_ were mad. Ellen had almost forgotten that she was the only one that could hear her kidnapper talk.

"_Very good Elley!_" the man spoke shrilly, she only scowled. Oh how she hated pet names! She almost went to speak back again, that was before Günther started to move closer. Her jaw clenched as he walked behind her, his shoes squeaking as he did. This was it, it was going to be the end. The brave face she had held began to crumble as her lip twitched and a tiny whimper forced its way out. She tried to turn her head around to see what he was doing but his firm hand gripped onto her chin and stopped her. Günther was going to slit her throat. It was going to be a pathetic, sad and lonely death. She had imagined how she might die before, of old age or even like her mother. Despite the way news circulated in and out of her life, and even the crime cases she dealt with on a daily basis, it never occurred that she could meet an end just like this.

So as the world slowly came to an end, she took in one final breath and closed her eyes as the blade was being raised in the air. It came down in one swift movement, slicing clean. Ellen braced for the pain, the feeling of torn flesh. She was prepared for her neck to be split open and to choke on her own blood. It would have been reasonably quick. Instead she found herself wondering if this was how is really felt, if there was no pain at all, just silence. Then, by some strange miracle she felt the tightness that bound her hands disappear. Then her legs, until rather than being a bloody mess she was simply untied. That breath she had been holding onto was suddenly released and the air flowed back into her lungs. It stung at first, her body almost wanted to give up, it had been so ready to just die. But as it filled her over and over again, and she panted out of relief, a wave of calm washed over. When she looked up, she saw Günther leaving the room. Just before the door slammed though, someone slid in a plate of food and things got just a little better.

"_I remember the first time my mother told me that riddle and I only argued that dragons didn't exist._" The voice returned, "_Anyway, as a reward, enjoy something to eat. We've got some more work to do soon._"

Ellen didn't really care about his ramblings, all she cared about was the freedom in her wrists and ankles, and the wonderful sensation of a peanut butter sandwich gracing her taste buds.


	4. The Great Game - Part Four

Authors Note:

I'm so happy with the direction this story is moving in and I'm excited as I get new followers. I won't let you guys down, I swear. Just as little pre-warning/spoiler you may want to brush up on you knowledge of Shakespeare's Othello. It's not totally necessary but if you know it you may pick up on a little references here and there; some foreshadowing. It's going to play a crucial role in how some of my mysteries will play out!

**Please** don't forget to review and follow. I need them to flourish!

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**The Great Game – Part Four**

Peter sat in the living room with his youngest daughter silently. Their tea had gone cold a while ago and their conversation has died with it. Peter had spoken some more to Beth, tried to reconcile for his actions and she was all too ready to forgive him. But being a Harper like she was, it wasn't in her nature to let him get off without a little bit of suffering. She'd drag on her reluctance until the end of the night and then there was no doubt they'd be back to speaking terms again. The Harper girls had a tendency of being hard skinned; almost immovable once they'd had their mind set to something. That was something they had gained off of their deceased mother, Heather.

Heather had been an exquisite woman. Funny, kind and courageous. She had the most gorgeous ebony skin in all of Europe, many would agree. Her long black hair had been just as envied; until the cancer struck. It had been a slow and degrading battle. Despite all of Heather's strength and optimism she didn't pull through. Beth and Ellen had visited her mother everyday in hospital as the end drew nearer, bringing her fresh flowers. Beth would tell stories of her police training while Ellen would read Heather's favourite John Donne poems. 'The Sun Rising' had been more frequently visited than most. But Peter was never in sight. The year previously, his government work became more important than his family, and with a heavy heart the two had separated. It had seemed like Peter and Heather And even though he had truly loved Heather he couldn't find it in himself to speak to her, he couldn't taint his memory of what she was in his mind. As pathetic of an excuse as it was, it was something that Beth had to come to terms with.

"I'm not a hero, sweetheart." He finally declared, "I'm your imperfect asshole of a father and I'm sorry."

Beth nodded in response and gave him a weak smile. She stood from the couch and began to collect the cups to wash up.

"I need to go over to Dave's he's got the solution for my contact lenses." She replied, eying her father's reaction in the kitchen.

"That's not code for-," Peter went to question.

"No, it's not code for sex dad." She grabbed her jacket and went for her scarf, "But I'm sure with all the stalking you've been doing you already know our code."

"Thankfully, I do not." Peter grimaced and almost looked like her threw up in his mouth a little bit.

"You can stay here. Or not. Just don't wait up for me to come back." Beth turned the keys in the lock, starting into the stairwell. Peter got to his feet to close the door behind his daughter when she turned back one last time, "By the way. She still looked like an angel, even if she was frail and had no hair."

Then Beth was gone and Peter let out a sigh of relief. He knew exactly what was going on, he had only hoped that it would be someone less important in his life. They should have taken his secretary or something. Taking Ellen was over stepping the mark. Peter reached into his pocket drawing out his phone and dialling the first number that came to mind; James Moriarty's number.

When the phone was answered, Moriarty's chilling laugh echoed. Peter felt his jaw clench as his thoughts were confirmed. The bombings and Ellen's kidnapping had indeed been the work of the consulting criminal.

"Jim, I want her back now. The bombing was impressive and you've made your point. I'll stay." Peter spoke first, he was not in the mood for Moriarty's childish games.

"You think this is about you Harper?" James snapped back, "Do as you please, quit. Run back off to serve Queen and country. I'll still kill you for it, but I have greater plans for this daughter of yours."

"If you so much as harm one hair on her head-,"

"Whoops." Jim chuckled, "Too late for that."

"I'll kill you, you son-of-a-bitch."

"I see where she gets her fire from. But insults and death threats will get you nowhere Peter. She lives as long as Sherlock Holmes solves my puzzles. But how about I cut you a deal?"

"I'm listening." Peter drew out.

"I'm going to leave her a puzzle, just one. If she works it out, she gets to come home and you and your family are free. You can leave and have faith in both your daughter's safety. I mean, her life is still in the hands of that dull detective, so if he slips up I'll still blow her to pieces. But maybe she can prove herself before his timer runs out."

"And what if she doesn't?" Peter dared to question.

"Then you, me and Nickolas Night can have a long chat about loyalty before I get him to blow your brains out." Jim chided, "Goodnight Mr. Harper. Don't let the bed bugs bite." And with that the familiar hum of the dial tone echoed in Peter's ear. But Peter was not nearly done. He had one more call to make tonight and a long overdue favour to cash in. Nickolas Night owed Peter a lot. Now it was payday.

vvvvvv

Ellen couldn't believe the predicament she was in. Back against a cell wall and furiously devouring a peanut butter sandwich, she would have killed to have a nut allergy. Maybe this madness could end. _No_. Ellen was stronger than that. She didn't want to die, not really. Perhaps her life wasn't as exciting as most people. She'd never travelled, or had many notable hobbies. She had been a plain nobody, until suddenly she'd been turned into a bear. Now someone was poking her with a stick and it wouldn't be long before she turned around and began her own rampage.

She had begun to build a profile of her kidnapper. He had a very peculiarly accent, if she was right he must have been Irish. There was a clear Dubliner flow to his words, not that that specifically narrowed down who he was. Ellen didn't know any Irish people, so he wasn't any associate of hers. He clearly liked to play games also. She had a strong feeling that the riddle he had given her earlier was not the last. If he toyed with Mr. Holmes like that, then why would anybody else be different. At the moment he was a mystery and shrouding himself in riddles and games made analysing him only that much harder.

She finished her sandwich and allowed her head to rest against the concrete, taking in one large breath. This man had a fancy for attention to detail, but like all puzzles, the trick of a riddle was always in the wording. The answer had to be staring her in the face. Ellen got to her feet and properly inspected the room. There was one light, hung from the ceiling, fluorescent bulb. The peeling wallpaper had a recurring image, a black and white ornate symbol. It was almost like some kind of flower. Upon closer inspection the wall had holes in it, like bullet marks. Of course, Ellen couldn't miss the big yellow smiley face of the far wall. She hadn't seen it before, being turned away from it, but now it was as prominent as ever. The floors were a cold concrete and the chairs in the room were stainless steel, bolted to the ground. No windows and no other doors.

Ellen even checked underneath the seats for possible clues. For keys… For something… For _anything_. Then as if the light bulb had metaphorically appeared over her head, she stood up tall and glanced over at the tray her sandwich had been slid in on. Lining the tray had been an old newspaper, which she hadn't noticed until now.

Ellen bent down and brushed the crumbs away with her hand. The paper had been dated back to several months ago and the headline read as follows: '_Night in Shining Armour. Minister Inducted as Secretary of State for Defence'_. Ellen kept reading on.

**_"Night In Shining Armour. Minister Inducted as Secretary of State for Defence._**

Earlier today Nickolas Night, Minister for Transport was promoted to Minister for Defence. The news comes in the wake of Minister Thomas Brady's resignation after several witnesses came forth claiming Brady's involvement in embezzlement and corruption which was confirmed in front of a magistrate last Tuesday.

Night was eager to take up the role and commented 'Brady's actions have been irresponsible and plainly unjust to the British taxpayers. 'I promise to restore voter confidence and stability through my new role and do what I'm supposed to. Keep this country safe'."

A plastered next to the headline was a picture of the smiling Minister Night. Ellen frowned out of confusion. On any other occasion she didn't really give a damn about politics, it caused way too many arguments in her household. But now she wasn't confused because she didn't know who the politicians were, in fact the exact opposite. Ellen knew Nickolas Night. He was an old family friend of her father's. She seen him at many family dinners and get-togethers, but what was really strange was the last time that she had seen the man. It was no secret that Ellen's father was deeply involved in the government. While he was not the face of it like Night was, she knew the two of them had worked closely for many years. She had remembered that evening ever so clearly. It had been the first time she had spoken to her father after her Mother's death.

Peter and Ellen had dinner reservations. It had been time for them to open up to one another and set things of their past aside, so Ellen had planned a nice dinner in an open place so both of them would be forced to keep their voices down. The screaming matches the Harper's created never ended in a victor. Period. Everything was picture perfect, until Peter arrived. He was pissed off his face, shouting and laughing at the top of his lungs. He couldn't contain a single thought. It had been twenty minutes in when Night had arrived with his wife, casually unaware. He tried to greet Peter when he saw the two but before any greetings could be exchanged, Peter was on his feet, fists flying. There had been reporters everywhere. Ellen couldn't even remember how it was possible for so many people with cameras to be in one place and any given time. Her father had begun to violently beat Night and the restaurant staff had been forced to step in and drag him off his bloodied friend. Ellen had never known what the fight had been about, whether it was her father's drunkenness or possibly something else at play. All she had known was that the next day her father had come back to her apartment to apologise and to tell her that he had been demoted because of his actions. Apparently, the secret service weren't fans of their men beating up public servants.

And now reading this news article, everything about Night had suddenly become very shady. She didn't read the article as 'Nickolas Night gets inducted by his own merit', it read 'Thomas Brady booted… replaced by slightly less sketchy Night'. A cold shiver passed up Ellen's spine and a lump formed in her chest. This wasn't the last newspaper she was going to get, that was certain.

"_I see you've noticed my next clue_." The voice jeered in her earpiece, jolting her upright, "_Good on you_."

"What does Night have to do with anything?"

"_Everything…_" the man said softly, "_And nothing_."

Ellen sat in her position, in silence. All she could hear was her own breathing as the hairs on the back of her neck began to prick. Something about the newspaper wasn't right. The grammar and spelling was all fine, but there was something deeper; unsettling. Her kidnapper was still one step ahead. That needed to change and quickly.

"_I need you to make another call_." The comment was demanding, like the fun and games had been stripped back. As the man spoke the door to her cell opened yet again and in walker Günther. In the big man's hands were two items; in the left a gun was gripped tightly and in the other was the familiar pink phone. Günther didn't make a sound but merely threw the phone in Ellen's direction, which she caught in air.

"_Same rules as last time. You tell them anything, anything that I don't allow you to and Günther's going to put a lovely piece of lead through your pretty little skull."_

Ellen gulped and reached for the phone, unlocking it and going straight to the only contact in its system. As she pressed call and pressed the device to her ear she couldn't help but feel slightly relieved. She didn't know why, but she did. Something about the consulting detective was soothing and more than ever, Ellen Harper needed that.

vvvvvv

The lights were swirling red and blue. The tape sectioning off the public from the bombsite was glowing luminescent, as Sherlock lifted it above his head and waltz on in. Instantly he was met by an array of shouting and officers trying to push him back behind the line.

"Sherlock!" John was shouting behind as he finally caught up, ducking under the tape as well.

"No civilians." Two officers tried to push them back as Lestrade finally caught sight of the ordeal and marched over.

"It's okay mates. Let 'em through." He commanded and the two officers scowled but did as he asked.

To put it lightly, Lestrade was a mess. He had bags under his eyes and a look on his face of utter dejection. In the force, there was always good and bad days. There was fantastic chases and mysteries to be solved, those were the reasons why Lestrade didn't completely appose the idea of Sherlock's and his deductions. But then there were days like today, where everything went from shit to more shit, until everything around was a giant pile unbearable choking shit. There were things that Lestrade had seen in this line of work that haunted him when he closed his eyes and now there was just one more thing to add to that terrible list.

Greg still had a inkling of hope, call it foolish, but he did. Everyone on site could see, most especially Sherlock Holmes, and it was that reason that when someone declared they'd found a body that Lestrade could have swooned.

"Alive?" he pivoted on his heel and ran towards where the shout had come, Sherlock and John in close tow. Below, amongst the rubble were members of the bomb squad, pulling at the broken pieces of concrete as quickly as humanly possible. Out the bottom of a large slab was a foot, the black heeled pump barely gripping onto it.

Sherlock was taking it all in, perplexed by the mystery that this bomber had created. He couldn't tear his eyes away as the final pieces of rubble were removed and the girl's body sat lifeless on display.

"Jesus." John stepped back with a sigh, averting his eyes. Lestrade had had a similar reaction to John's only a tad more dramatic. At the reveal, he too looked away. A heavy breath left his chest and he struggled to capture more air. His brows contorted with confusion, anger… sadness. As he let his mind process the information the anger grew more prominent across his face. He stood still, his lip curling in distain. His breathing labored as he struggled not to beat the shit out of someone.

But Sherlock's eyes stayed locked on. It was a gruesome sight, whatever was left of Ms. Harper wasn't much to go on. Her face was deformed due to the impact of the explosion, there was holes where shrapnel had ripped through her soft flesh and blood continued to leak from every crevice the woman had. But it was as Sherlock inspected the body further that he drew one straightforward conclusion. _This was not Ellen Harper_.

"Arhhhh!" Lestrade screamed and belted the side of a paramedic van with his fist. Its bang echoed across the scene and the crowd watching on went silent, "This is my fault."

"Greg…" John stepped forward to try and comfort the other man, "This isn't your fault in the slightest."

"No, not at all!" Lestrade said, throwing his hands in the air, "How am I supposed to do my job properly when I can't even keep the people in my command safe, let alone an entire city?"

"Don't make a fool of yourself." Sherlock turned to him with a scowl on his face. Lestrade's head swung quickly in his direction as his feet took off too.

"How dare you." Lestrade held his fists forward.

"It's not Ms. Harper." Sherlock said dryly and Lestrade came to an immediate halt.

"What?" Lestrade's jaw dropped.

"Must I repeat myself? I thought I was clear." Sherlock rolled his eyes, a scoff sat at the back of his throat ready to be unleashed.

"Wait, what are you talking about?" John asked, confused. Like a cue, that scoff was released into the night and Sherlock's famous eye roll was an added bonus.

"Look at her clothes." He pointed back to the body, "It's almost an exact recreation of her outfit but look at the length of the skirt. Ms. Harper had a skirt an inch longer than the one on whoever that lady is. I'm sure once you get the body back for examination you'll find that indeed it's someone else."

And just to add to more of the drama of the moment, the pink phone that the bomber called from sounded a text alert. Sherlock swiftly pulled it from his pocket, and the screen read 'YOU HAVE ONE NEW MESSAGE'. Activating the phone there was the sounded for three clear Greenwich pips and one long one.

"Four pips." John stated as the men all looked at one another.

"First test passed it would seem, here's the second." Sherlock replied as a photo came up on the screen on the phone; A close-up of a car with it's driver's door open and number plate clearly visible.

"It's abandoned wouldn't you say?" Sherlock deduced.

"I'll see if it's been reported." Lestrade whipped his own mobile out and began to frantically dial. Sherlock craned his neck forward to get a closer look at the image when an incoming call took over the device instead. John looking on, became perplexed, staring at Sherlock for some kind of answer. Sherlock nodded and put the phone to his ear.

"Hello?"

"It's okay you've gone to the police." A woman's voice spoke through the speaker. Sherlock felt a wave of relief wash over him as he recognised the voice. It was indeed their little kidnap victim, risen from the dead, "But don't rely on them."

"Have they hurt you?" Sherlock said softly, needing to test a theory.

"Clever you, guessing about Carl Powers." She continued on, ignoring his question. She must have been prompted by something or someone, "I never liked him. Carl laughed at me, so I stopped him laughing."

"You've stolen a voice, you really should give it back." Sherlock prodded.

"This is about you and me." At this line Ellen sounded very put off. For most of the call she had been reasonably well composed, something that Sherlock had underestimated.

"Who are _you_?

"Wouldn't you like to know." Ellen's voice rung with an eerie quality that wasn't her own. Suddenly Sherlock felt a great sense of unease in his gut, everything was very much real. This wasn't but a simple game anymore.

"You solved my last puzzle in nine hours. This time you have eight and while you try to solve it, she'll be solving mine."

Lestrade stepped forward off his phone with a relieved look on his face, "We've found it."

And Sherlock's phone went dead, the beeping hollow and foreboding. He slipped the phone back into his pocket and nodded in Lestrade's direction,

"He's still got her, we've got eight hours."


	5. The Great Game - Part Five

Authors Note:

Thanks for the follows and favourites. They mean heaps. If it's not too much of an ask don't forget to **leave a review**.

Also a pre warning for next week, I won't be updating as I have a comic-book expo on all weekend. Sorry! We're almost at the end of The Great Game now maybe another three or four and then we're moving onto S2E01 - A Scandal in Belgravia!

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**The Great Game – Part Five**

The night was cool. In London, it never was anything else. Even when the summer rolled round, when the sun went down you would be sure it was winter. Tonight though, the air was chilly for darker reasons, as shadows of Peter Harper's past came back to haunt him. In the abandoned car park, Peter's parka was all that stood between him and the biting cold. His car sat in park, the headlights on, waiting for Nickolas Night to arrive.

Peter had known Nickolas for a good portion of his life, heck the man was the closest thing to a best friend. So when five years ago, Night walked into Peter's office and told him all about his new contact James Moriarty and the fortune that could come along with helping the mystery man out, Peter couldn't refuse. The proposal had been simple, the two of them would work deep behind enemy lines. Peter's 25 plus years of experience in the secret service and Nikolas' career in politics gave them the perfect way in. As they spied, they became more content that their actions were justified. The corruption they uncovered, the lies, the deceit. The partnership between the three men had many benefits. All until several months ago when the spying became something different and Peter's briefcase had been swapped with a semi-automatic rifle. The game they had been playing changed and he found himself in the middle of a raging battlefield with no protection. All his limbs exposed.

And for a while he went along with it. He killed and he blackmailed. He got Nickolas into a seat of power. He helped organize crimes that Moriarty had penned. But the secret's he began to share were no longer for the greater good of the public. They were for power and James Moriarty was bathing in it.

He hadn't spoken to Nickolas since the fight, but he knew despite Moriarty's warnings his friend wouldn't kill him. Perhaps Peter has unwittingly joined a cult, but Night's allegiance was tearing at the seams before Peter wanted to leave. Cult or no cult.

When Nickolas' black Camaro pulled up in front of Peter's own, the tension in the air grew exponentially. Behind them the distant sound of the city's hustle flowed. So much life, so much potential. But here and now, things were much grimmer.

"Hello old friend." Nickolas said with a light chuckle as he stepped from the vehicle, his engine still running. Peter stood still, his silhouette stretch out to meet Night's feet.

"It's been a while." Peter said with a slight nod.

"Too long if you ask me." Nickolas responded.

"Shame no-one asked you." Peter quipped. Nickolas' chuckle returned and then silence filled the open air. Nickolas began to kick at the ground mindlessly.

"Pete, do you remember when we got in this together?"

"As clear as day." Peter responded.

"I told you we could change the world and we have. Now's just the next stage of evolution. We've got to keep moving forward."

"Well, forgive me if it seems daft, but kidnapping my daughter seems kind of backwards in my opinion."

"You miss the point…" Nickolas began to pace back and forth, "As usual."

"You owe me a lot of favours Nick and I'm cashing in." Peter took a few steps closer.

"I owe you my life." Nickolas stopped in his place and nodded. Peter smiled and rested an arm on his friend's shoulder. The tension that had worried him was slowly fading away.

"But I was never a man of my word." Night said, reaching into his pocket. Before Peter could respond there was a gun pressed to his chest, right over his heart. It began to race and he stared Night hard down the eyes.

"You know, when Moriarty asks you to do something you do it. When he says jump you respond with –,"

"How high." Peter grit his teeth firmly, not daring to move a muscle. Night wasn't a killer, he just had to remind him of that.

"I'm sorry about your daughter, even that doesn't sit well with me. But business is business. He needs her for something, much more important than getting you to stay. In fact he called me this afternoon and told me that you would do something like this. He said 'I don't care how you do it, just kill him. We don't need deserters.' And so here I am, with all the power for once Petey."

"After everything, you could just pull the trigger?" Peter forced out, sweat beading on his forehead, "You were beside me when my children were born and I yours. For Christ sake Ellen's your God-daughter. I'm your best mate. Don't forget that."

"You think I have?" Nickolas turned his gun sideways, pressing it closer into Peter's soft flesh, "You think I feel good about any of this. About killing and kidnapping? Because if you do for one second then you're so off the mark."

"Then put the gun down." Peter raised his hands slowly, in surrender. Nickolas took a step back and but kept the gun facing Peter.

"I can't, because it's you or me. No matter how close we are, I've got to think about myself first." Nickolas said with coarseness in his voice, his index finger trembling on the trigger of the gun. Peter knew this was it; Night had given him an ultimatum. There was one thing that his old friend had forgotten. Peter was not a victim, he'd spent years training how to avert scenarios like this. So just as Night went to press the trigger, Peter's hand shot out at lightning speed. It collided with the side of the gun, sending the bullet past his ear. The bang was ear-piercing and as it rung in his head, he moved faster again to try and pry the weapon from his attackers grip. Night had been expecting it though and pulled it closer to his body, trying to ward off Peter. Their hands fought for dominance over the gun, slipping in and out of the trigger hole. They elbowed and grabbed onto the other, struggling for their lives. Amidst all the fighting and hair pulling a second shot was fired that caused both men to stiffen. Neither of them had expected it, not really knowing who's hand was where and who was winning their brawl. Peter felt the gun kick back into his gut; a soreness resonating instantly. He half expected to look down and find the bullet had cut through him, but that was not the case. Instead Nickolas Night gawped at his own chest. His white tailored skirt beginning to saturate red. He let out a heavy breath and his face contorted with pain before finally his grip on the gun loosened and he went tumbling to the ground.

Peter stumbled backwards, Night's blood having splattered onto his own outfit. He hardly knew what to do, not really processing what had happened in front of him. As Nickolas bled out onto the concrete of the parking lot Peter could only think of one thing. _Run_. And run as fast as he possibly could. So Peter jumped back into his car and didn't let his mind wander. He had to delete what had happened. Just like when Heather had asked for a divorce, when he got the call she was dead and when he found out about Ellen's kidnap. His eyes glazed over and all he could do in the moment was stare off into the distant horizon as he sped down a highway at 100k's an hour.

vvvvvv

Sherlock was used to working through the night, heck he did it all the time. But with a clock counting down he wasn't accustomed to the pressure (although it would be welcome in any other circumstances). It had been made very clear to him that Ms. Harper's kidnapping had an deep emotional impact of Lestrade and of course John was phased by the ruckus too. But Sherlock, he had to remain emotionless, throughout this whole thing he had to distance himself. See each new puzzle as a case and treat it as such. Despite his efforts though he couldn't help but find himself bewildered as to why the kidnapper was making such and effort with this Ellen. What was it about her that made her a target? That was something that Sherlock found himself raking his brain, especially since he didn't have time to research her and find out.

From his initial deduction he had learned much about her. He knew her job, small details about her sister (protestor outside, resemblance was uncanny), possible ties with a father in government or military judging from her stance but too informal to be ex-military herself. Plus he'd once seen files on Mycroft's laptop about someone named Harper before, so there was a possible link. Sherlock knew about her relationship status, single, thanks to her obvious batting lashes and flirty tone when talking to John. He knew about her nail biting habit, about the fact she was uncomfortable wearing heels, hell he even knew that her favourite colour was most likely blue. But from all of that Sherlock wasn't any step closer to working out why it was her that was taken.

It would have taken time and effort to deck a car out in explosives, time to know that no-one else was around so that she wouldn't give away telltale signs of panic. The more cases that appeared before Sherlock the more that this concerned him. He'd heard a name once before…_ Moriarty_… but he couldn't be sure. The name played on his lips as he was jolted back from his mind palace. John snapping his fingers in front of Sherlock's blank face. He blinked twice and came back, giving his friend a reassuring smile. They sat in a cab racing around London trying to solve the latest mystery that had been set in order to save the girl's life.

They'd already gone to the site of the abandoned car, the missing man's wife distraught at the whole ordeal. Though Sherlock hardly bought any of it, as he said to John, people love to contradict you. So after a little game of 'Remember me from your past?' Sherlock had deduced some very important details that lead him to believe that Ian Monkford's wife knew more than she was letting on. As the cab came to a halt Sherlock jumped out, leaving John to pay the fare. Janus Cars. That's where the search had led and just in time too as the owner began walk out the front office.

"Excuse me." Sherlock shouted out, trying his best to come off as friendly, "I believe Scotland Yard called about an investigation."

"Took your time." The man said with a chuckle, "How can I help you gentleman?"

"Mr. Monkford hired a car from you yesterday."

"Yeah. Lovely motor. Mazda RX-8. Wouldn't mind one myself!" he chuffed, putting his hands inside his blazer pockets. Sherlock's eyes squinted as he noticed a slight discoloration of the man's skin as the fabric to his shirt slide. Clearly a mark of where a watch had been, forgotten to be taken off when sunbathing. The car yard was just sitting around them and Sherlock looked towards them, rocking back and forth on his feet.

"Is it that one?" he asked, pointing towards what he knew to be the wrong car.

"No, they're all jags. I can see you're not a car man, eh?" the man laughed again.

"But, surely you can afford one – a Mazda, I mean?" Sherlock chuffed with him.

"Yeah, it's a fair point. But you know how it is. It's like working in a sweetshop. Once you start picking at the licorice allsorts, when does it all stop, eh?"

"But you didn't know Mr. Monkford?" John interjected.

"No, he was just a client. Came in here and hired one of my cars. No idea what happened to him, poor sod." The owners demeanor shifted and his shoulders slumped slightly, but it was all very false in Sherlock's eyes. He needed to test the man.

"Nice holiday, Mr. Ewert?" Sherlock questioned, Ewert merely looked flabbergasted.

"You've been away, haven't you?" Sherlock gently nodded at his tanned skin. Ewert went red and shook his head.

"No, it's er, sunbeds. I'm afraid, yeah. Too busy to get away. My wife would love it though, a bit of sun."

"Have you got any change for the cigarette machine?" Sherlock asked, the machine standing adjacent to the trio, he held out a bank note, "I'm gasping."

Mr. Ewert frowned for a moment, reaching into his trouser pants and pulling out his wallet. He fumbed around for a bit looking for some coins but came up short.

"Erm, no. Sorry!" Ewert responded regretfully, putting the wallet back into his pants.

"Oh well." Sherlock said a bit too chipper and then turned on his heel, "Thank you very much for your time Mr. Ewert. You've been very helpful."

With three hours to go Sherlock was on the verge of cracking the case. It was clear that Mrs. Monkford and Mr. Ewert were both blatant liars. That was the obvious part though. Now standing over a microscope the picture was becoming much clearer. The sample blood from the car had faint traces of being frozen, something that a dead man wouldn't normally have in his system. So Mr. Monkford had either been frozen and thawed or the more likely scenario was that this was blood from a while ago, possibly donated. As Sherlock went to make his final notes by entering his mind palace the pink phone began to ring.

"Ellen?" he questioned softly. There was silence for a moment before another voice answered; a computer generated one.

"Not available at the moment. Little sheep is sleeping, needs her rest."

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked harshly, again the response was delayed.

"The answer is in the name. _Janus_ _Cars_."

"Why would you give me a clue?"

"Why does anyone do anything? Because I'm bored. We were made for each other, Sherlock." The computer voice droned on as Sherlock could hear the sound of something else. He could hear breathing, soft and gentle, in and out. Eerie but also soothing, like sound of life and death teetering on an edge. It could only belong to Ellen Harper.

"Chop, chop. We wouldn't want her to wake with a bang."

John entered as the phone cut out, coffees in hand. A dull smile played on Sherlock's lips as he took one and guzzled down.

"They've identified the body, from the explosion." John said matter of factly.

"Anyone of importance?" Sherlock's head peaked up, although his tone suggested disinterest.

"Actually, yes." John said, "Casey Taylor, Peter Harper's secretary –,"

"Ellen's father's secretary?" Sherlock cut John off as the cogs in his mind began to tick over, "What's the tying factor in each?"

"Peter Harper…" John said in slow realisation.

"Once we solve this case, looks like we need to pay daddy-dearest a visit." And with that Sherlock's head was back on the microscope and he was pulled back into the inner workings of his mind palace, the puzzle pieces fighting to make a whole picture.

vvvvvv

Ellen had tried to stay awake, really she had. Knowing that just outside her door lurked a giant man with a gun wasn't something that she could be happy with. The eight hour countdown wasn't all that fun either. As much as she fought sleep, her eyes kept fluttering. The adrenaline in her system wasn't enough to force her awake. The way she saw it was even if Günther came back if the timer ran to zero she could have some semblance of a peaceful death. She had always thought about how nice it would be to die while you slept. Not feeling any pain, just slipping away from the world as your peaceful dreams disappeared. So try as she might, Ellen desperately needed to rest and so sleep came.

A dreamless sleep, something that was actually welcomed. On any other occasion when Miss Harper was stressed she could conjure up quite terrible dreams. Images and violence that she had never witnessed before but somehow her subconscious drew them to the forefront of her mind, terrifying her. There was many a night she had awoken in a cold sweat, shaking her head and trying to push out the memories that had been there. Served her right for watching one too many horror movies for bed. When Ellen finally awoke it was to the sound of her cell door opening and the heaving thumping of Günther's stride. He had the famed gun in his hand and as Ellen's sleep covered eyes met his, her heart almost came to a stop.

"Eight hours are up." She heard the man say. She'd never heard his voice before. Strangely, despite his name, he was in fact non-Germanic but spoke with a thick South-African drawl. Rubbing her eyes quickly she sat up and waited, unsure of what her fate was to be.

"Boss says you get to live." He said, face still covered, though she could swear he was smiling. Ellen let out a relieved sigh and even smiled back at the large man. She swore if she ever made it out of here alive, she wouldn't forget to give Sherlock Holmes a big wet kiss. Günther turned around for a moment and reached outside the cell, grabbing something and handing it down to Ellen. Another tray of food, this time a lovely warm breakfast complete with eggs benedict, honey soaked porridge and perfectly cooked bacon as a side. Had it been anyone else but Ellen, they probably would have devoured the savoury dish in seconds flat, but after last night and the mysteries that were beginning to unravel she went straight for what was sitting underneath the food; today's newspaper.

Fumbling not to spill any food, she lifted plates until the latest heading was sprawled neatly in front of her. Her eyes noticed two key stories of the day. At first she noticed the image of her own face across the page reporting on the bombing of the previous day. That came as a surprise, what an effort to blow the place up and plant another body. But that wasn't so much the heading that scared her. Underneath it sat another article close to home. A heading that made her jaw physically drop and the terrible knot in her stomach tighten. '_Suicide in the Night: Minister Nikolas Night found dead.'_

Ellen knew, she had barely scratched the surface, but whatever her kidnapper was playing out terrified her. Her thoughts swirled into wonder as she envisioned what he would do next and somehow she couldn't help but feel that she was caught up in something that was much bigger than just her.


	6. The Great Game - Part Six

Authors Note:

Hey there! Here's another chapter to enjoy. Please leave a review and don't forget to follow/fav to keep up to date. You won't be disappointed. Now onto a chapter of revelations:

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**The Great Game – Part Six**

Sherlock had solved the case with Ian Monkford in the nick of time. The man wasn't dead, in fact it was all a rouse. The answer was in the name, Janus Cars. They could arrange for people to disappear, and from some of Sherlock's earlier deductions performed on Ewart it became apparent that he had just returned from Columbia after settling Ian Monkford into a new life. Mrs. Monkford had been in on it as well and with a quick phone call to Lestrade she was arrested, of course after Sherlock had posted his findings on his website.

He was met with a call from a computerized voice. Sherlock may have been a master at running on no sleep but he very much doubted the kidnap victim, Ellen Harper, was as talented. She had to be sleeping.

"Well done." The computer droned, "Ms. Harper is greatful." And then the phone hung up. Sherlock slipped it back into his pocket and put his mind on other things.

Now, Sherlock and John were at it again. More mysteries to solve, but without the pressure of a ticking bomb at the moment. John Watson was running severely sleep deprived, without a hearty morning breakfast to keep his mood at bay. The antics of the previous day had taken a great toll on his body. Somehow after solving the Monkford case, he had gotten in five or so hours of sleep before Sherlock had pounced on him like a cat and dragged him out the door. Sherlock on the other hand hadn't slept a wink, although on large cases he could go for days without it. It was alarming habit that John had tried to curb, to no avail.

Sherlock's brain was stuck in overdrive, he slipped from reality into his mind palace trying to fit together the facts that he had. So far, when the bomber had called, it was preceded by a text message containing a mp3 file that played a varying number of Greenwich pips. But as the case drew on the pips became less and less, indicating the amount of cases Sherlock must solve before they could get the girl back or before something far worse could ever happen. That's what began to worry the consulting detective. What happened once the timer reached zero permanently?

"I spoke to Mycroft, he assured me that _they_ were already looking into things which is usually his code for 'I'm busy.'" Sherlock announced as the duo jumped into a cab. As promised their case led them to the front door of Peter Harper, the father of the kidnapped girl that had been causing Sherlock so much trouble. He had to be the next part of their case. Sherlock Holmes did not believe in coincidences. Dealing with the fact that Mr. Harper's child was kidnapped and his secretary's body had been used as a decoy, the man was obviously hiding some secrets. Some that Sherlock was going to pry from the Harpers grasp for the man's own benefit.

"You know…" John said after a large stretch and yawn, "I've been thinking, about how you knew the body wasn't Ellen Harper just from looking at her clothes."

"Yes…?" Sherlock turned to his partner and raised one brow quizzically.

"Well, it's just that I didn't realize you took that much interest in what women wear. Not that I'm all that surprised. Thinking about it, I makes sense that every new person you stumble across is another challenge –," John began to ramble.

"Are you going to reach a point any time soon, Watson?" Sherlock said swiftly, his friend gave him a coy smile and held his tongue momentarily.

"You were checking her out, weren't you?" John finally replied. The look on Sherlock's face, that suddenly appeared, was a combination of not only betrayal but also an odd combination of disgust, anger and just at the end, guilt. Sherlock began to spill out all the reasons why John was wrong; that his deduction skills weren't at all on the point and that Sherlock didn't even take into consideration that 'kind of stuff' especially about a client. But for all Sherlock's spluttering, John kept a smug smile at the corner of his lips. Perhaps his friend wasn't as much of a robot as he thought, he certainly couldn't be if he learnt the ability to appreciate a great pair of arse and tits. Sherlock Holmes, for all his wondrous perfection, was still human.

It was like Sherlock had deleted the conversation with John as they paid for the cab and exited, standing right out the front of Mr. Harper's house. With a swagger in his step, Sherlock walked up to the man's front porch and knocked on the door. There was a sound a smashing inside before a voice yelled out.

"One minute!"

"It's Sherlock Holmes, I'm working on the case about your daughter." Sherlock called and all the clambering stopped. The man inside cleared his throat and then suddenly the front door swung wide open. As it did Sherlock prepared his mind for the deductions to come. The man that stood there had to be Peter Harper. You could see the resemblance of his daughter in his face. They had the same deep almond eyes, the same full lips, Sherlock couldn't help but wonder what the girl's mother had looked like. But this man did have the same life in his eyes that his daughter had, in fact that most people did. When the two men's gaze met, Sherlock could tell that this man had seen things in his life that others couldn't imagine. It was the look of death. A look that Watson had had embedded behind his own gaze when they first met.

Mr. Harper was dressed warmly; a fuzzy dressing gown pulled on tightly and large oversized slippers.

"Is there any news?" Mr. Harper asked, allowing Sherlock no room the glance into the house behind. Sherlock's eyes couldn't help themselves but fall into a judging squint, leaving John to play good cop.

"Not as such. The kidnapper still seems to be playing games, but we're not here to talk just about her." John explained, the man's face flickered. For a fraction of a second Peter's brows furrowed, before neatly fixing themselves.

"Do you mind if we come inside? It's delicate business that the entire neighbourhood need not know." Sherlock pressed Peter.

"It's kind of a mess at the moment." Peter frowned once more, still blocking the doorway. Sherlock tried to look away with disinterest. An awkward tension filled the air. Mr. Harper's eyes darted around once more, not meeting the other men's. He looked back into the house behind and shrugged reluctantly.

"Very well then," Harper stated and the door swung open, "Take a seat in the living room."

John led the way to a mustard coloured couch, but Sherlock had faltered momentarily taking in the house. John only sighed; Sherlock was deducing. After a rather obvious cough on John's part, Sherlock finally followed his partner.

The couch was rather small. Sherlock and John were not particularly large men but even they found themselves cramped. Before Mr. Harper could open his mouth to say more Sherlock had deduced many things about the man. His house was generally small, but it wasn't due to lack of funds. It was decorated with lavish paintings on any available wall. There was an abundance of coffee and side tables made of Agarwood, one of the rarest and most expensive woods on the market. On them sat various trinkets and sculptures that gave away much about Harpers tastes. There was a vase in the entrance of the house made of solid crystal and the rug that sat underneath the couch they were now sitting on, clearly Persian in origin. Mr. Harper was rich, but didn't feel the need to brag. Holmes also noticed one photo frame in the hallway, an image containing himself, Ellen Harper and what could only be another daughter of his. The lack of images of their mother made Mr and Mrs Harper's estrangement obvious, as well as a lack of a ring on his finger. But perhaps the most curious thing that Sherlock Holmes noticed was something on Peter Harper himself. To many others it was something easily missed, but tucked behind Harper's ear was a fleck of something red. On closer inspection Holmes could see Harpers skin was pink in tinge, as if he'd been scrubbing the get something off it. The red left over fleck could very well have been paint, the many artworks around the house could have been his handy work. But there was a much simpler answer. _It was blood_.

Now, where Mr. Harper had encountered enough blood to warrant scratching his skin clean, was another question. The man didn't have any visible wounds, no injuries to the wrists to suggest self-harm but there were the beginnings of a bruise forming on his right arm. Sherlock was about to mention something when Peter asked his own,

"Holmes?" He sat adjacent to Sherlock and John, "Not by any chance related to Mycroft are you?"

"It never ceases to surprise me how many people he knows." Sherlock said with the twinge of a smirk.

"I've only met him once or twice." Peter shrugged non-commitally, "I wouldn't say I 'know' him."

"He is a man of mystery." Watson threw in. Holmes wasn't nearly done with his deductions though. He glanced over Harper's shoulder, admittedly not very smoothly to stare at a plaque mounted on the far wall. His eyes couldn't quite adjust to read the entire thing but one word stuck out; BRAVERY. So Sherlock had more than enough information to sedate him.

"Well. What was it you needed to talk about privately?" Peter Harper asked, lowering his voice.

"It's not a random kidnapping, is it?" Sherlock said matter-of-factly. Watson turned and nudged him in the side.

"Excuse me?" Harper scoffed. _Confirmation_.

"You work with the government." Sherlock didn't really need an answer, "You know Mycroft so that's a given. You're not a high ranking official, otherwise I'd know you, but the lavishness of your home suggests that you're still somewhere important. Your home is expensive but small. Meaning you keep your existence relatively low key. A plaque for bravery? Suggests you're involved in defense and so it comes as no surprise that you've made enemies. Pissed off the wrong person, have you Mr. Harper? Now your daughter's been kidnapped and someone killed your secretary as a decoy. So it's not a large leap for me to suggest you know the bomber, possibly even well. So lets not play dumb, you know exactly what's going on, don't you Mr. Harper?"

Stunned silence. Sherlock watched Harper's face contort as he processed what had been uncovered. First there was shock, then guilt that slowly morphed into anger.

"Get out Mr. Holmes." Peter Harper got to his feet and pointed towards the door, "Take your associate with you."

"Your daughter may be murdered at any moment." Sherlock continued on, "Now personally I don't care what happens to her, I see death everyday in this line of work, but there are other people that do. If you know something you have a responsibility to-."

"I said get out Mr. Holmes!" Mr. Harper cut Sherlock off in a rage, moving forward to grab Holmes by the collar. John stood up and pried the two away from one another and pushed Sherlock towards the door.

"I'm sorry Mr. Harper." Watson opened the front door and shoved Holmes out, "Sherlock isn't good with boundaries." He let the door close, leaving the fuming man back inside.

"Well that went rather well." Sherlock said smugly, starting a brisk stroll down the street.

"You never really understood sensitivity did you?" Watson shook his head, picking up his speed to follow suit.

"No, it hinders results." Sherlock reached for his phone in his coat pocket, "It would take a blind person not to see I was right though."

"Better let Lestrade know the whole thing isn't random." John nodded.

"You do that, I need to make a call to my brother." Sherlock unlocked his phone and went to Mycroft in his contacts, "I need to know all I can about Mr. Harper and urgently."

vvvvvv

Ellen had tasked herself to look at everything else on the newspaper but it wasn't anything of importance. Not that she could completely cross it off, it just seemed that the puzzle she was being forced to solve related more to do with Nickolas Night than coupons for yoga classes. She ate the delicious breakfast prepared, it wasn't something she would let go to waste. She had many doubts about the safety of all the food they were giving her. They could be putting rat poison in it and she'd gobble it down like there was no tomorrow. But for all Ellen knew that could be true, she didn't know if she'd see many more days.

She had thoughts running rampant inside her head. It was very clear that this kidnapping wasn't an accident. It was planned well in advance. The facts were scattered in front of her. Firstly there was the black car in the parking lot that she always assumed had no owner. It had to have sat in that underground parking lot for a minimum of two months. That lead her to believe she'd been under watch for a similar period of time. Her Irish kidnapper was gathering intel on her, so his knowledge of her acquaintance with Nickolas Night started to clear itself up. With what she knew she could reach an obvious conclusion. Night had been involved with her father. Her father was involved with the government. This kidnapper had a debt to settle and it finally became clear that Sherlock Holmes nor solving the puzzle the Irish set, would end this ordeal. Even if Ellen made it out alive, Beth could be the next target.

Nickolas Night was dead. The newspaper had ruled it suicide, but now Ellen knew differently. He had been killed. Someone was trying to get to her father, trying to get rid of the people he held closest. Thinking her sister could be next, she had to do something. Even if it meant putting her life in danger, Ellen was going to go out on a limb. The next time she was put on the phone to Holmes she had to send a message. If the kidnapper was so meticulous, if he wanted to play a game, then she would play. If she had worked out anything about this man, it was that he liked to bluff. She'd found an Achilles heel and intended to exploit it.

"_Morning Miss Harper."_ The Irish's voice chimed.

"Morning." She said with spiteful joy.

"_The detective solved another mystery while you counted sheep_." The voice bit back, "_Kind of hunky, isn't he?_"

"Forgive me if I'm not in the mood to ogle over boys with you." Ellen snipped, "Just give me the next message."

"_Oh I'm not giving you another message for a while_." The kidnapper chirped back. A slight chuckle echoed through the ear pierce. Ellen couldn't help but frown with worry. She couldn't keep up with him changing the game.

"_We're moving you to another location_!" the guy pattered on, "_Surprise! Actually the sedative in your food should be kicking in any second now_."

Ellen's jaw literally dropped as she realized the kidnapper wasn't joking. She looked down at her left hand which had begun to tingle, then noticed a numbness growing from her feet. She instantly leapt up and tried to shake it off. She shook her head back and forth and slapped her cheeks, all in an attempt to beat out whoever was on the other end of the phone.

"_Oh don't be such a mule. It's not like you can fight it_." The voice echoed from the ear piece and cut out. Ellen took in sharp, shallow breaths and leant against the wall for support as the sedative did indeed do as promised.

"No…" she whispered softly, still shaking her head trying to wake herself up, "NO!"

But without warning her legs gave up on her and she slumped to the ground. As she lay spread across the floor the numbness grew up her torso and arms until finally it reached her eyes and they fluttered to a close. Ellen Harper, was out like a light.

vvvvvv

"This isn't really my problem." Mycroft said with distain.

"Not yet." Sherlock bit back, "But the bombings have already hit the headlines, they've got the public eye. If there's another attack, and Mr. Harper knows who it is behind it all, I'd think stopping that would be your business. I'd hate for someone to anonymously tip off the media about the government's lack of interest in terrorism."

"Fine. I'll get someone to look into him." Sherlock could hear Mycroft's eyes rolling, "But you better not forget the Andrew West case."

"I never forget anything." Sherlock replied slyly and with that the phone hung up. Sherlock glanced over to John who simultaneously got off a call with Lestrade.

"Lestrade's going to get a team to watch Harper." John stated, as his stomach roared to life. He looked down at it, almost doe-eyed. Without saying a single word to one another Sherlock had hailed a cab and they were off to the closest diner they could find. It wasn't a difficult task to find at least one decent place in close proximity. But time was of the essence; with John's stomach and with the bomber lurking a phone call away it made their situation much more dire.

"Feeling better now?" Sherlock asked as John's food arrived and he dug in. Once John had devoured a decent amount of his food (a delicious English breakfast with a pot of corresponding tea) the thoughts circling his mind surged forward.

"Mmm." He started to put more food on his fork, "You realise we've hardly stopped for a breath since this thing started. Has it occurred to you-."

"Probably." Sherlock cut John off. John had another bite of food before launching on.

"No- has it occurred to you that the bomber's playing a game with you? The envelope, breaking into the other flat, the dead kid's shoes. It's all meant for you."

"Yes." Sherlock smiled ever so slightly, "I know."

"Is it him then? Moriarty?"

"Perhaps." Sherlock stared out the big glass window of the diner. Everything was falling into place and Sherlock wasn't quite a fan of how it would all lay out. _What would happen when the message pipped only once?_ As if to further his discontent the bomber's pink phone sounded an alert. Their break had been short lived. Sherlock hastily switched the phone on, opening the message to reveal two short Greenwich pips followed by a longer tone and an image of a smiling middle aged woman.

"That could be anybody." Sherlock stared at it disgruntled.

"Well it could be, yeah. Lucky for you I've been more than a little unemployed." John chortled.

"How do you mean?"

"Lucky for you," John stood up and headed towards the counter, "Mrs. Hudson and I watch far too much telly." Picking up a remote and turning on a small television, he flipped through channels until he landed on one with the same woman on the phone.

"_Thank you, Tyra!"_ the woman on the telly said with a chuckle, "_Doesn't she look lovely, everybody, now?_"

As she continued on with the show, the pink phone began to ring. Sherlock answered it with caution as John came back to him side.

"Hello?" he said softly.

"I don't… like… computer voices." Shook the voice of an elderly sounding woman. Definitely not Ellen Harper, "Too… impersonal."

"Don't ask… about…Harper." The woman tried to steady her weeping, "She's still… _indisposed_."

"I'll give you… twelve hours." The woman added and Sherlock let out a deep sigh.

"Why are you doing this? Sherlock's words came strongly as he eyed John.

"I like… to watch you… dance." The woman gasped with grief and let her sobs run free. Sherlock lowered the phone, shaking his head. More hostages, this was not part of the pattern. As he did the television began to run a report on the death of Connie Prince, the woman from the image.

"Continuing into the sudden death of the popular TV personality, Connie Prince. Miss Prince, famous for her make-over programmes, was found dead two days ago by her brother in the house they shared in Hampstead…"

With one look between each other, Holmes and Watson were off again in search of a solution to the bomber's puzzle. But the sinking feeling in Sherlock Holmes' gut, still lingered.


	7. The Great Game - Part Seven

Authors Note:

So this chapter's kind of a long one. Bear with me, I'm sure you'll love it. We'll see how long I last sticking to updating every Sunday. I'm on break at the moment so until university resumes I'm gonna go all out. Also this is the chapter I told you 'Othello' would be worked into.

One last tid-bit, sorry for constantly changing the story summary. I think it's just about perfect now. But I'm not totally sure if I love it yet.

Please don't forget to leave an awesome review. More reviews = better updates!

* * *

**The Great Game – Part Seven**.

It felt like no time had passed. Ellen sat up straight and tall with an alarming gasp. Seconds ago she had felt herself fall to the ground, struggling to fight the effects of a sedative. But now? Well now she had no clue. She sat blinking, taking in her surroundings. Gone was the bland concrete cell and her small collection of newspaper sheets. This new place was much more fascinating. She was in a library and a giant one at that.

Ellen slowly stood up, wary of her balance, but intrigued. The shelves around her towered. Stairs led around, winding to other levels and more mystery. Above an intricate stain glass window, in the shape of a rose, showered her in light. It was dusty and in need of a desperate clean. The shelves were similar too, heavily strewn with the grey granules. The most bizarre thing of all was the distinct lack of books. There was about a dozen books in total that she could see, in a library that could easily house hundreds of thousands. On her level, one lone mahogany table sat in the center. Adorned with three bankers lamps and pieces of newspaper. Ellen almost thought it was another clue but the articles were too faded to be legible. After glancing up, she glanced down to find a small tote bag beside where she awoke. She instantly reached down inside it to find a change of clothes and her earpiece laying on top. She was not putting on anything the Irishman brought her, he could get bloody lost.

With a quick swivel she looked for how she could have possibly entered here; two large swinging doors behind. She raced over, doubting that they would be open, but still shook them. She had to try, right? Alas, they were bolted shut. The Irishman had changed the game. She didn't know how much longer she had to solve his puzzle but with all the upset in his pattern she must have been nearing the end. She couldn't put her faith in Sherlock Holmes, despite doing well so far, if she had the opportunity to escape she had to take it. The Irishman was playing a game; He wanted her to solve a puzzle. She could only assume that if she won, if she unraveled the mystery that it would mean good things. It was like he wanted her to prove herself. Perhaps if she answered correctly he would show his face, or (even more of a leap) he would let her go. But she needed to make some ground, even meeting the man could help her work out how to play him. She'd already learned a lot just from his voice. So that was what she needed to do, but she needed more information. Despite her gut telling her not to pick up the earpiece, she waltzed back over to it and put it on. With a click it buzzed to life, but the Irishman did not reply.

"I know you're listening." Ellen said defiantly, "I know you're watching."

No response.

"You keep sending me clues. So I can only assume you want me to solve them for your entertainment. The whole kidnapping and threatening to shoot me game is getting old quickly, so why not move this along and give me some more information."

Silence still. It was infuriating, she almost screamed until from the second level there was a loud thump. It made her jump in her place, but rather than try and hide, something else in her took over. She threw the earpiece off and onto the ground and raced up the first flight of stairs. She weaved in and out the shelves, finding no one in sight. The only thing she did find was one old tattered book sprawled across the floor, as if it had fallen from its shelf. Suddenly everything was very clear. The Irishman wouldn't give her any new clues because she was standing in one! He'd moved her to a brand new location and everything she'd been given was a new mystery to solve. She'd said it herself, he was meticulous. Now every nook, every cranny, ever dust particle, was a clue. And the books, well they had to be the first place to start.

Ellen ran around again, looking at the placement of all the books in their corresponding sections. She noted their names and authors. Yes, this was planned. The books were not books at all. They were playwrights! But after picking up three she realized that there was a deeper pattern. They weren't different, aside for the publishing date and company. Just reprints of the same story. And what story was it you ask? Something Ellen's father had read to her at a young age, something that had been deeply personal; _William Shakespeare's 'Othello'._

"What the hell did you do, Dad?" Ellen found herself whispering. Everything kept circling around her father and Nickolas Night. Now the kidnapper knew Ellen and her father's favourite story? That was slightly alarming. But more than that was how she felt things might play out. Lunatics using books as clues never ended well. She only hoped that her lunatic wasn't trying to make things play out like Othello. It was a great Shakespearian tragedy after all, and spoiler, almost everybody dies.

vvvvvv

Beth hadn't gone back to see her father in Ellen's apartment. She couldn't make herself. The moment they had shared had been important and she thought they had reached a point of understanding, but something about her father Beth still found unsettling. There were so many mysteries behind her father's eyes it was hard to know what was actually honesty from him.

She hadn't been told much about what was going on with her sister. Only that it wasn't over. The gas leak in the car park had been a rouse. Ellen was still alive. That hope was better than nothing. But it didn't put the other Harper daughter's mind to rest. Guilt ran through her. The last time the sisters had talked Beth had said some things she very much regretted.

So yes, Beth had thrown a costume party in Scotland Yard. It had been discrete, all the invitations had been sent out to emails only to be shown once and then self-destructed. While Ellen was the one who worked best with people, Beth had a strong suit in computing. So with her small get together from the I.T department and few other cool people from the main floor they took over the computer lab and were having a great time. Beth made the mistake of telling Dave, who brought way to many people as his 'plus one'. Somehow drugs were getting sent around and the music got turned too high, next thing a security guard had found them, ratted them out and Beth had found herself jobless. Yes, Ellen had been right that Beth was completely out of her mind for thinking she could throw a party in a police department and get away with it. That was over three weeks ago. Now, she was sizing up her other job options while wondering if her sister would make it through the night.

"I've got to run to work." Dave shouted walking out of his shower, wearing only a towel. His wet curls stuck to his face. As he spoke her phone beeped. Quickly she looked down hoping it was some news about Ellen.

**Couldn't stay at Ellen's. We'll talk soon – DAD.**

"I'm gonna head back home." Beth called back to Dave who threw on a pair of old boxers.

"Do you mind giving me a lift?" he asked, now slipping into a pair of his tracksuit pants, "Usually I just ask Mum to drop me, but she's out at book club with Doris."

"Yeah no worries." Beth nodded. That was the only unattractive thing Beth found with Dave; twenty-six and still lived in the granny flat of his parent's house. That and his inability to wash his own clothes. Finally Dave wandered out with his uniform on; a large fluorescent coat over a spaghetti sauce stained crimson v-neck tee. Somehow, trolley collecting was a turn on.

They walked up the driveway and to the street where Beth's car was parked. Beth had barely spoken to him since the whole ordeal with Ellen had started. She just sat next to her phone either crying or eating ice-cream. Sometimes both at the same time. So Dave didn't pester her, he sat silently and stared out the window of the car as Beth drove the quick ten minutes to his job.

When she pulled up, she smiled and leant over to kiss him goodbye but he flinched and pulled back.

"Beth…" he said softly, "I've got to tell you something. Something bad and you're not going to like it."

"You didn't jam the washing machine with a hairball again, did you?" Beth pulled away and cringed.

"That was one time!" Dave rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"Okay…" Beth paused and inspected Dave's face, he looked incredibly guilty, "What is it?

"Yeah, so… I… urghh. Right, actually, just forget it." He mumbled and stepped out of the car. Beth quickly pulled the keys out and chased after him.

"What the fuck?" she gripped his shoulder and turned him back around to face her, "Hey, if you've got something to tell me, then say it. I've got enough on my mind at the moment than to worry about something you've gone and effed up."

"I THINK I ACCIDENTLY HELPED GET YOUR SISTER KIDNAPPED!" Dave blurted out all at once, "This guy approached me after we broke up. He said if I could get some of your sister's clothes and some dumb book from her apartment that he'd pay me big money."

"WHAT?!" Beth shouted out, then regained her compsure, "Wait… How much?"

"Ten-thousand."

"Quid?" Beth's jaw dropped.

"Yes." Dave nodded, he refused to make eye contact with her, "I was just going to break in, but I tried twice and almost got caught and time was running out so I just…"

"-You came back to me." Beth finished his sentence dryly.

"I'm so sorry." Dave pleaded, "I didn't know what they wanted it for. I just thought some weirdo was gonna sit and sniff her stuff or something. No harm done."

"Did he wire the money to you?"

"No." Dave shook his head, "Cash in hand. Well in an envelope, in my mailbox."

"Damn it." Beth tightened her jaw. She had a look in her own eyes, like she was processing information. She got the look whenever she used to be gathering intel in the computing lab. Whenever she was helping to solve a case. Dave knew in that moment that Beth had pushed aside care that their relationship was a sham. She hadn't cared that Dave had lied, it hurt like hell but there was more important things to fret over. What she did care about, was finding out more on the person or people responsible for taking her sister.

"Did you ever see a face? How did they get in contact with you?" Beth insisted.

"I didn't see anyone's face. Just got a call from some South African guy. But the number was blocked. I couldn't call him back. I just got the stuff the other night when we were shagging on the couch, you know when Ellen was working late-."

"Yes Dave, I remember us shagging. Get to the point!" Beth shouted once more. He nodded rigorously and continued,

"I put it in some postbox, like they told me to. Then the next day we were protesting, then we were back at yours again, then you were crying 'cause they took her."

"Pass me your phone." Beth held her hand. Dave reluctantly pulled it from his pant pocket. She snatched it up, turning away and heading back to her car, "If I have to hack a million phones in London to find them, I will."

"You can't go after 'em." Dave chased her instead.

"They took my sister." Beth stopped at her car door, "I can do whatever I want. Oh, and by the way, as a token of your apology, I'm keeping this phone. Buy yourself another with your newfound wealth."

With that Beth was in her car and speeding back off to Ellen's apartment. Back there she had her laptop with a million hacking programs, she'd managed to keep hold of that when she was let go. Beth was going to find the son of a bitch who took her sister. Then? She was going to make him pay.

vvvvvv

Ellen was so worried. She knew there had to be another puzzle for Sherlock Holmes going on while she was stuck in here. It made no sense that the bomber wouldn't continue his game while she had been _unresponsive_. So again the clock inside her brain ticked._ How long did she have?_ But with all the information she had been given, she couldn't piece anything together.

She bounded down the stairs and back to the large table with the banker lights, she couldn't help but have her eyes drawn back to the earpiece on the ground. The darn thing held so many answers. But she wasn't the only one desperate for her to put the earpiece back on. The doors to the library swung open and there was the familiar figure of the hooded Günther.

"Put it on." He drawled, a gun extended and other hand free to point at the device on the ground. Ellen, didn't move at first, she sat with her arms folded and a distinct pout on her lips. When Günther cocked the gun back and re-aimed at her she didn't defy him again.

"I'm going. I'm going!" Ellen hopped to her feet and raced over to it. Once it was on her ear there was the annoying voice of the Irishman again.

"_You've grown rather brave, haven't you!_" He said, his voice reeking of pride. Instantly she stopped worrying about the puzzle with Othello and remembered her plan she had hatched just before she had been knocked-out. As Günther handed her a pink phone the Irishman continued, "_Well back to business. You can tell Sherly he's done good and saved you from another explosion_."

"I don't get why you're doing all this." Ellen said once the bomber took a breath. It was a bland statement that almost sounded disinterested. As if Ellen truly was bored of this game. She was testing a theory.

"_Why does anyone do anything?_"

"I get snippets of understanding. This game you're playing revolves around my father, Nickolas Night and yourself, but why me? What makes it so important that you go through with all of this setting up?"

"_Finally!_" he said with delight, "_You're starting to ask the right questions. Now make the call._"

And she was back to being the messenger, but little did her captor know that she was about to shake things up. She knew Günther could shoot her, but she had to go out on a limb. If it meant protecting her family, she had a duty to try. The phone's ringing echoed in her ear; she had to get a warning across.

"Hello?" Sherlock's voice broke the silence. Ellen took in a deep breath.

"It's me again." Ellen responded. But Sherlock's response was confusing.

"What have you done with the other?"

"You can go and collect her." Ellen repeated what she was told, "She's at number 12 in the Terrace Apartment Block on Smith St."

"Are you alright Miss Harper?" Sherlock asked. Ellen hesitated.

"_Hang up._" The Irishman commanded from her earpiece. But she lingered, "_HANG. UP!"_

"My family is in danger! Watch th-." Ellen managed to shout out before Günther had pried the phone from her hand and hung it up himself. Her heart beat dangerously in her chest.

"I'm not afraid of your guns." She stared Günther in the eyes.

"_It appears not._" The Irishman said coldly. Günther who had his gun raised, lowered it to his side without a word. Ellen frowned and her heart somehow beat harder.

"_But, if you think that there isn't repercussions for going off script…" _Günther started to type in another number onto the pink phone, "_You'd be wrong_."

Günther held out the phone to her and Ellen took it wearily. The Irishman went silent.

"Hello…?" A lady's voice echoed out.

"Hello." Ellen replied, her own voice shaking, "It's going to be alright they've sent a rescue team your way as we sp-."

"You… cheated." The woman cut her off. Her voice riddled with fear, "We were playing... a… game."

"There… are… consequences." The woman began to sob. Ellen wanted to console her, to tell her everything would be alright. But before she could say anything there was a booming noise from the other side and the line cut out. Ellen gasped and covered her mouth as her own tears began to well and her throat constricted. Had Ellen inadvertently killed an innocent? In her attempt to save her family, she had condemned another. Then the cackling returned.

"_Oooooh-y!_" the laugh was menacing. It was _evil_. Ellen sat down, unresponsive as the laughing came to a slow finish, "_Well it's good to know that you've learnt your lesson. I get it, you're think you're brave. You'll throw yourself under a bus and not think twice if it'll save daddy and little sissy. But you didn't think you'd be pushing someone else there instead._"

"You are a monster." Ellen managed to get out before her grief took over once more.

"_You haven't seen anything yet baby._" His response was almost impressed, "_Now be a darl and put the change of clothes on. Or perhaps I'll have to get Beth on the line…_" And with that Ellen pried the earpiece out and stared over at the bag of clothes. She crawled over next to it and began to pull forth the contents; a baggy red sweater, black pants and some fuzzy socks. All of which were actual items from her wardrobe. That wasn't creepy at all… But she did as she was told.

That had been a terrible mistake, she should have kept her mouth shut. She couldn't begin to imagine what the woman on the other end of the phone must have been going through and then suddenly (and confusingly) snuffed out like a light.

Ellen had been right, the Irishman wouldn't hurt her. He was far crueler. She had wished she was wrong. The guilt that weighed her down now was something she had never experienced. But more than that, she was angry. Furious that she had been subdued again. Ellen did not go easily into the corner. Despite the fact she was terrified of the man on the other end of the earpiece, she still wanted to do everything in her power to make his life hell.

She watched as Günther left her alone, slipping the pink phone into his pocket and disappearing behind those huge swinging doors. For Beth's sake, she would change her clothes and also because she was starting to smell in the others. Ellen hadn't looked at her own appearance in some while now. It had to have been three days. That's how long she'd been forced to endure this torture. So she started to switch clothes, careful not to expose any skin. She knew there had to be cameras hidden somewhere, she didn't put a peep show past her captor. She pulled the sweater easily over her head and fumbled around inside to get her white work shirt off underneath. Then she slipped on the pants and lastly the socks, throwing aside her black pumps. She didn't really have much use for heels now. She went to put her shoes into the bag when she noticed there was still something inside. Something small and rectangular. It was another book.

Ellen picked it up, feeling its weight in her hands. When she flipped it over to read the cover it was no surprise it read 'Othello'. But this copy was not something pulled from a library. It was old, from many reads. It's hardback cover withering from sweaty hands that held it. It had pages tagged in the book. But the thing that struck the biggest nerve was what was written on the inside of the cover.

"To Ellen, Pride is the downfall of all great men, and you shall be mine.

With love, Dad."

It wasn't a fake message written from the bomber. It was something far more poignant. This was her father's copy, one he had given to her when she had graduated High School. He'd caught her reading it so much that he'd decided to give it to her as a gift. Somehow the Irishman had gotten a hold of it. Ellen flicked through the pages only to find it had been defaced. Parts of dialogue had been highlighted and things circled. To make matters worse every page or so something would be covered in white-out and new dialogue handwritten in its place. Then right towards the end, before the final confrontation, the pages had been ripped out. She flipped back and forth trying to understand why the kidnapper had defaced her copy. Like always, there was a pattern.

In Othello, the antagonist Iago put in motion a plan to corrupt the lives of the people around him for their wrongdoings to him. Whether the other characters had actively or accidently mistreated him, it didn't matter. He had a vendetta. The parts highlighted in her copy was the dialogue belonging to two specific characters; Michael Cassio and Roderigo. The characters fates were entwined throughout the story. At Iago's will Roderigo helps bring about a plot of Cassio's downfall and murder, but fails to kill Cassio. Instead Iago having no further use for him kills Roderigo instead. Normally after their fight towards the end, when Roderigo is killed, all of Iago's plans are revealed and he is captured to be tortured for his crimes at Cassio's command. But after their fight, the pages were gone. There was no ending.

Ellen shut the book unsettled, but held it closely to her chest. She had something more than a bundle of mismatched clothes to remind her of home, but it had been tainted. She got to her feet and padded up the stairs to hide in between the bookcases. She was sure that every inch of the place was lined with cameras, she doubted she'd truly be alone, but that didn't matter. She slumped down, legs huddled close and the book still at her chest.

She hadn't realized she had been crying at first. It was only when she looked down and saw small droplets of water hitting the book that she reached up to wipe them away. The whole time she had remained so numb. She didn't want to give the Irishman any satisfaction. She was a Harper after all. But as everything began to seep in, the weight of her situation became dire. So those tears flowed and she was happy to let them fall. She was human after all. Worry ate at her. She worried for her family, worried about Mr. Holmes' competency, she even worried about how the family of the elderly lady would be coping with such horrendous news. But that was only on the surface. Then she went deeper and wondered if she would ever be able to see the sun again. If she would be able to travel. She had a bucket list of things to do, first on the list was to learn how to swim. She'd never learnt as a kid, refused to go near water. She hated the creatures of the sea, especially after stumbling across the movie _Jaws_! It was all the little things that made Ellen's stobs stronger, shaking her deeply. It was the thought that she would never find love, never settle down and start a family. Never see grandchildren. Never live a full life. So many regrets piled on top of her that she thought her lungs might cave on themselves and she would die in this spot of the library. She didn't want to die, not really.

When she finally pulled her strength together and wiped away the last of her tears she was able to notice something. On the floor beside her, something had fallen from the cover of the book. It sat on its back, a flat rectangular paper. A watermark that lightly read 'Kodak' visible. It was a photograph. Ellen slowly reached down to it and flipped it over in her hand, careful not to put fingerprints on it. Had she seen this any earlier, she may have cried again. But not now. Not as everything fell into place. The cogs in her mind ticked over as she realized what all the clues were leading up to. Instead of feeling powerless and afraid, a fire in her belly grew. She grit her teeth and scowled at the image in her hand. That was it. The Irishman had overstepped the line.

The image was simple enough, her father and Nickolas Night dressed to the nine at some type of event. But that wasn't what made her so infuriated. Instead it was the chicken scrawl that had demented the image. In thick red ink crosses sat over Night's eyes and her father - a target drawn over his heart. Everything made so much sense.

Clue 1: The riddle of the man in the dungeon. The first mystery the Irishman had set for Ellen. The answer? _When Night falls_. She had already been told that Nickolas was going to die before he did.

Clue 2: The newspaper with the job promotion of Night. From a month or so back.

Clue 3: The newspaper reporting on the suicide of Nickolas Night, her story included as well.

Clue 4: The library, housing only copies of Othello.

Clue 5: Her defaced copy of Othello, the final scenes removed.

And of course, Clue 6: The image.

Her father was going to be killed. The Irishman had played them like Iago. Night had been cast as Roderigo and her father, Michael Cassio. But the story was going to be re-written. This time, Cassio would die.

Ellen could feel the blood pumping in her ears, she could hear the buzz of a mosquito weaving in and out of the other shelves. The world slowed around her, but her mind was not still at all. Hundreds of thoughts raced around, fighting for dominancy but they whizzed around one central necessity; She had to get to her father, she had to warn him and get him to safety. She didn't care how he got himself in this situation. They could deal with those questions later. For now she let her mind work at how to escape. There was nobody in the universe that could stop her from reaching her family.

Night began to fall (how ironic). The sun stopped beating down on the huge stained glass sky-light above. Its colours eerily dull. The rose fading in the shadows. Amongst the bookcases, the dust finally settled in place. The mosquito's buzzing coming to a halt. Ellen was calm and collected. Then the plan began to form.

It was ridiculous at first. Ideas of starting a fire with the wood from the bookshelves, setting off fire alarms and burning her way out. Then came the idea of finding and taking out all of the cameras, smashing the room to bits until someone came to inspect on her, then make a mad dash. But she understood the simpler the plan, the more likely her escape. So Ellen had decided. She would make one final phone call, then all she needed was a gun. A gun that resided on Günther's belt.

But for now she needed sleep. A dreamless sleep, but sleep all the same. When the sun would rise once more, everything was going to change. The game, was on.

vvvvv

He had solved the Connie Prince case, but despite that Sherlock had lost the round. The kidnapped girl, Ellen Harper had gone off script. '_My family is in danger! Watch th-.'_ The words rung in his head. His deductions after speaking to Mr. Harper had been confirmed. This was all part of a much larger picture. So now the bomber was coming after all the family, Sherlock could only assume. But Miss Harper had risked something big to give them that message. He doubted she was aware what the outcome would be. Most people would put themselves in danger to protect the ones they loved. Uh, sentiment. But it didn't take an idiot to know that by threatening someone's loved ones, using that as bait, a response was different. Logic concluded that Harper wouldn't endanger her own family to protect her own family. Therefore she couldn't have known about the old lady. The threat the kidnapper held over her was something she was willing to risk.

It was the morning after. He sat staring at the television, as a broadcast of another 'gas-leak' graced the screen. From the same address they had been given to collect the elderly lady. _Cause and effect_. The game didn't go to plan so the bomber improvised but sent a clear message.

"There has been no more word from police about the sudden and unexpected death of Minister Nickolas Night. His family and friends are still in shock." A news reader explained, "In other news the explosion which ripped through several floors, killing twelve people, is said to have been cause by a faulty gas main. A spokesman from the utility company…"

John reached to the remote and muted the volume.

"Seemed silly to have more than one hostage." Sherlock sat relaxed on his couch, picking something from his teeth with his tongue.

"He certainly gets about." John shook his head as more images flashed across the screen.

"Well, obviously I lost that round. Although technically I did solve the case," Sherlock plodded on, "He killed the old lady because Ms. Harper said something out of turn. I think he anticipated it would happen."

"What d'you mean?" John turned to him.

"You've seen the woman, she's not exactly the friendliest. So she's made a few calls like the bomber asked, then got a little bit cocky. Bam, she finds out her kidnapping isn't an accident and tries to give us a message. But like always he's one step ahead, organised. So he blows up the Granny to keep Miss Harper in check." Sherlock put his hands to his mouth and smiled slightly, "I wonder if she's had direct contact?"

"It would make her release unlikely if she had." John added, a brow raised in Holmes' direction.

"Yes. You'd think, he must stay above it all. He organises these things but no-one ever has direct contact."

"What ... like the Connie Prince murder – he-he arranged that? So people come to him wanting their crimes fixed up, like booking a holiday?" John said with a tinge of disgust in his voice.

"Novel." Sherlock said softly, his face beaming. John noticed the look and held his jaw turning back as the TV began another story. Raoul de Santos, the house keeper responsible for the death of Prince was being arrested. When John looked back her found Sherlock staring at the pink phone.

"Taking his time this time." He commented, tapping his foot impatiently.

_"_Anything on the Carl Powers case?" John asked.

"Nothing. All the living classmates check out spotless. No connection." Sherlock replied blankly.

"Maybe the killer was older than Carl?

"The thought had occurred." Sherlock bit his lip and let his head flop around on his neck.

"What about Peter Harper? Mycroft pull up anything?" John asked instead. Sherlock shrugged dramatically.

"So why's he doing this, then – playing this game with you? And the whole thing with the Harper's?" John questioned.

_"_I think he wants to be distracted." Sherlock let another smirk slip out.

"I hope you'll be very happy together." John laughed humourlessly, as he marched into the kitchen.

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock looked up, John spun on his heel and slammed his hands down on the back of his armchair.

"There are lives at stake, Sherlock – actual _human_ lives… Just - just so I know, do you care about that at all?" he spat.

"Will caring about them help save them?" Sherlock replied irritated.

"Nope." John grit back, popping the 'p' at the end.

"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake." Sherlock replied too smugly. John scoffed again and gripped the chair tighter.

"And you find that easy, do you?"

"Yes, very." Sherlock met John darkly in the eyes, "Is that news to you?"

"No." John smiled back bitterly, "No."

"I've disappointed you." Sherlock's tone remained the same over smug one.

"That's good." John pointed at him, "That's a good deduction, yeah."

"_Don't_ make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them" As Sherlock had finished the pink phone hummed and in an instant Sherlock had deleted the little tiff between himself and Watson from his mind. He had a new case to solve.


	8. The Great Game - Part Eight

Authors Note:

So originally this was going to be the final chapter of The Great Game but it ended up running rather long so I've had to split it into another chapter. Wooo! More reading to do! Don't forget to leave your **reviews** since this is a pretty important chapter!

And a big warm welcome to all new readers! Enjoy!

* * *

**The Great Game – Part Eight.**

Everything Holmes had said had been correct. Peter Harper hadn't realized how transparent his secrets were. He could only pray that Sherlock did not know about the murder he had committed less than 48 hours ago.

Moriarty had done a similar thing under much friendlier circumstances when they met; He'd read him like a book. He'd known about his wife and two children just by looking at him. He knew his job, his preferred flavor of tea and even some deeper secrets. He weaseled his was into Peter's life and Peter had allowed him to. He got caught up in the brilliance of the consulting criminal he had forgotten the country and the allies he was leaving behind. James Moriarty was a charming man, and Peter a mere serpent to tame.

But all of this had started because of him. All of this never would have happened if he hadn't turned his back on Moriarty. He had given a lot of thought to handing himself in before his ex-wife Heather had passed away. He almost had. But suddenly the divorce was thrown in his face and Heather was out the door. He didn't really want to accept it. He wanted to fight for her and do her right, but she knew that he had gotten involved in dangerous business and had to remove herself and her daughters from all of it. Ellen had just exited university after six years of studying psychology and Beth beginning a web-programing course. The divorce was swift, but Peter and Heather had remained in close contact.

Just short of a year after the separation, Peter had set an anonymous meeting with the authorities to confess everything he knew. It was the right thing to do. Then Heather's cancer hit. The meeting was cancelled and for the first few hours he was the only one by his estranged-wife's bedside. She had collapsed out of nowhere while on a visit to a library in Southbank. She'd been called an ambulance and after hours of waiting and tests a doctor emerged to say she was stable but they may have found something alarming.

Peter visited in quiet hours, when he knew his daughter's had gone home for the night and before they would arrive in the morning. Avoiding them wasn't difficult. It was what came after that caused the break in their family altogether. Peter had been covering some of his tracks after his last meeting was indefinitely postponed. The timing felt all too coincidental. So Peter fell back on his training. He pretended all was well with Moriarty. He grew closer to Nickolas Night, tried to weasel everything the man knew about the consulting criminal out. He had to know weak points, he had to know his fears. In the shadow of night, he finally found one man that even James Moriarty quivered at the sound of, someone simply known as 'The Informant'. He met with the Informant one stormy London night, a car pulled up to a footpath he waited on and a shadowy figure spoke from inside. He never saw a face. But the Informant had said something that changed his life. Heather's cancer wasn't just bad luck. Peter didn't believe it at first, he left without a word. But the Informant's car trailed him until the driver stopped and got out, handing Peter a card with a phone number. Then the rain continued to pour as the car disappeared.

Peter resumed other methods of bringing Moriarty down. He had to prove for himself that the Informant was not lying. He had almost forgotten about the card until the night that Beth had called him hysterical that Heather had passed away, he hung up mid call. For all his sleuthing he hadn't been there. He wasn't by Heather's side and he wasn't there for his daughters. It didn't matter that within the following days a file appeared in his house with all documented proof of Heather's murder; small amounts radiation poisoning covered up that lead to the cancer and her death.

In the end, Heather's death and Ellen's kidnap all fell on him. But he wasn't done yet, not nearly. He had one final card to play, one sitting in his pocket with faded numbers printed across it. It was time to bring Moriarty down.

"Hello." A cold voice echoed over the telephone line. Peter took in a deep breath.

"This is Peter Harper." He said straightly.

"Took your time to reply."

"It's only been, what, five years?" Peter chuckled darkly.

"Are you in?"

"Do you even have to ask?"

"That is very good to hear Mr. Harper." The voice smugly replied, "Moriarty's deeds will not go unpunished. Your wife's death will not be in vain."

"Ex. But no, no it won't." Peter agreed solemnly, "And my daughter won't follow in her footsteps."

"Arrangements have already been made."

"Good."

"We will be in touch soon Peter." The Informant said, before the line went quiet. Peter stood in his quaint home, all alone. No sound except for a ticking clock coming from the kitchen. His stomach that had been churning with nerves, but now sat still. He was no longer worried about Night's murder coming back to him. He was not worried that his daughter would be killed. The Informant would take care of it all.

vvvvvv

It was ten at night and Beth hadn't left her computer screen in hours. Ever since she found out that Dave accidently helped in her sister's kidnap she'd been given one piece of evidence that could help her find Ellen. A phone, as possibly a way to track down Ellen or her kidnapper. The premise was simple. Crack into the blocked number that had called Dave. Except that was proving almost impossible. Even with all the software she had, some of it at police standard, she couldn't get a lock. So it was going to have to be done the hard way. Instead Beth had been in the process of first getting into police files. What she found was that there had been one phone number, that repeatedly called in. The way the case had been playing out so far was that for every mystery they solved, her sister would continue living. Of course it was another blocked number phoning it, but perhaps she'd have better luck with that number instead, provided it wasn't the same phone. While in the middle of recovering the number there was a sturdy knock at her front door.

"Beth…" a voice whispered through a crack. Beth proceeded to roll her eyes. It was the pesky voice of someone she had hoped never to see again. _Dave_.

"Piss off." She shouted back. Again he knocked pathetically and Beth let out a loud groan, "Far out!" she moped as she slid over to the door.

"WHAT?!" she declared when she had pried it open. Dave stood, still in his work gear, shoulders slumped.

"I'm so sorry, Beth." He shook his head, "I'm a moron, really."

"Tell me something I don't know." She went to close the door again, he threw his hand out to stop her.

"I want to help fix this. Please, even if it's just fetching you food. Or being a foot-stool. Let me make this right." Dave said softly, sincerity radiating from his face. Beth paused and refused to look him in the eye. She stared at the ground sullenly, mulling his offer over.

"If you throw in shoulder rubs, I'll consider forgiving you." She finally looked him in the eyes. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as she stepped out of the way and gestured for him to enter. He did so without hesitation.

Upon entering, his jaw dropped. The apartment before him was no longer the tidy shack that Ellen had maintained. There was paper all over the place, mugs of half finished tea and coffee, and Beth had three computers sitting around the place calculating algorithms rigorously. She was in work mode.

"How much progress have you made so far?" he asked coyly. She shrugged.

"Well tracking the number that called you was a bust, so I got into police files and I'm trying to track the number that keeps calling them."

"Wait?" Dave's eyes tightened, "The kidnapper has been calling the police?"

"Not exactly." Beth shook her head, sitting down on the couch and resuming typing, "They're getting Ellen to call and give clues to some detective Holmes. Who's some consultant on the whole project. The whole thing's some game. Oh and that gas leak that killed all those people in the apartment block, the one on the news, not an accidental gas leak."

"So now what?" Dave slumped beside her on the couch.

"Now we wait." Beth reached for a cold mug of tea, stirring the spoon in it nervously. She simply stared at the screen of her computer that began to run a new program. Dave stared at the girl's face. She was tired, bags hung under her eyes and her hair was precariously held in a messy bun on the top of her head. A plaid shirt hung from her shoulders, hiding her frail figure. He wondered when the last time she ate was. Upon closer inspection he could see the blood in her eyes, pleading with her to close them, to look away from a computer screen. In that moment he reached out and took the cup from her hand and placed it back down on the coffee table. She didn't say anything, but followed his hands with her eyes.

"You're amazing." He cupped her hand in his own, "Really phenomenal."

"It doesn't feel like that." She confessed, lowering her gaze once more.

"We're going to get her back. But you need to rest. I'll wake you if anything with the computers change."

"I can't-," she protested but Dave silenced her when she reached forward and pecked her lips. She pulled away slowly, resting her forehead on his.

"Rest." He insisted once more and she nodded. Curling tighter to her shirt she moved her head from Dave's and onto his shoulder. A warm arm hooked over the top of her and pulled closer as he planted another kiss on her head, falling asleep to the rhythm of his steady heart.

There was a loud beeping, that shook her awake. Instantly Beth realized it was morning. Dave had fallen asleep on top of her to which she only rolled her eyes. She didn't have time scold him. Instead she pounced for her computers to see which of them had cracked the code.

"It worked!" she screamed suddenly, which jolted Dave upright. She whipped back to him with delight, "Holy shit-balls Dave! It actually worked!"

"Huhhhh?" she mumbled out, rubbing his eyes.

"Earth to Dave!" she slapped him lightly on the cheek, "It worked. It unblocked the number…. Now if I can just…." She started to talk under her breath. Her typing resumed at a tremendous pace. When she suddenly started cackling with laughter Dave couldn't help but be scared.

"Please explain what's happening right now?" he mumbled out.

"If you've got the right know-how you can triangulate a phone's location by pinging signals off of cell-towers." She looked back at her screen with a beaming smile, "I think I know where they've got her. I think I've found her."

Beth reached over the table and to her mobile phone and keys, then got to her feet and started rushing around in the search for shoes.

"Right, get in the car." She turned back and demanded, "I'm typing in the location onto my phone GPS and we're going after her. You can call the police to meet us there while I drive."

"I don't suppose I have a say in this, do I?" Dave stood off the couch and stretched.

"Not in the slightest." She said with a raised brow and with that they were out the door.

The car ride was arduous. Beth couldn't shake her nerves as she propelled forward towards her sister. Could this really be happening? Were they about to find her sister? She hoped to God. Dave had called the police to meet them, trying to explain as much as possible as quickly as his mouth could move. When Beth finally managed to put her foot to the break, both of them were shaky. They were the first to the scene.

The building before them stood rather alone. The brick exterior was large, all the windows boarded up, graffiti decorated their surface. There was two large doors right at the front that looked like they could be bolted shut, but there was no way to be certain without going closer. For a moment Dave and Beth sat in the car, as if to wait for the police but after hearing no sirens Beth finally pulled the keys from the ignition.

"Get on the phone again." She demanded, opening her door and beginning to slowly wander over to the place. It creaked with age. The old trees that surrounded the library whistled with the wind. And Beth couldn't get her heart to calm. She was fifty meters from the front doors when a loud bang perforated her ears along with a deep cry of pain. She came to a halt and stared wide eyed at the place once more, not sure if she had imagined the sounds. Before she could get any further into questioning her sanity the front doors began to rattle violently, someone on the other side shaking at them. Then another bang, closer and from behind the door. With the sound the handles that met at the middle, broke into fragments, a blunt force breaking it's way through. More shaking and then with urgency the two doors burst wide open and a figure rushed forth, shaky.

Beth knew what she was staring at, but yet she continued to blink rapidly. A dark haired, frumpily clothed woman, with no shoes and only a pair of woolen socks running forward. A gun tightly gripped in her left hand, a darker red stain splattered across her oversized cherry jumper. The hair, wildly frizzy. Gloriously fierce. And when the two finally saw eye to eye the sound that escaped both was involuntary. A ghastly cry of relief, happiness and terror rolled into one. Beth charged her legs to move forward, fighting the urge to root themselves into the soil and slap her cheeks to reality.

There was Ellen. And as fast as her escape had happened, something behind her exploded faster. Fire gurgled from the belly of the library, it shook the ground as it crept forward. The world slowed in frames as the blaze licked after Ellen, forcing her to the ground to cover her head and ears. Beth turned to hide from the debris. This was no longer a surreal fantasy. This was actually happening. Finally, with ears buzzing and a cough stuck at the back of her throat Beth ran to her older sister's side. Ellen got to her knees and blinked with wonder. She grabbed at Beth's face and pulled her tight.

"You're alive!" Beth shouted, tears welling in her eyes, "YOU'RE ALIVE!"

And in a tight embrace the sister's stayed, until the wailing sirens caught up to them and formalities had to be addressed. Beth barely computed what she had just experienced, but she could feel her sister's quivering frame paired in her own and she feared to ask. _Ellen_, her big brave sister. The bravest woman Beth knew, had been reduced to a shaking terrified mess. Next thing, police had slipped the gun from Ellen's hand and tried to get them away from the scene. Fire still threatened to spread from the inside. But the most terrifying thing of all was when they finally released from their embrace and Ellen stared deadly at Beth.

"He's going to kill Dad." She whispered softly, "We've got less than 24 hours."

vvvvvv

A few hours earlier…

John hadn't kept his discontent for Sherlock a secret, as they delved into the next case. After a quick internet search, following the clues received in the last message the two had found themselves along the banks of the Thames. A body uncovered, Sherlock made light work deducting who and why the body was possibly there.

Alex Woodbridge. Late thirties. Security guard for the Hickman gallery. Killed in a hit by the assassin known as the Golem, the very life squeezed out of him. Which of course lead Sherlock to the conclusion that the 'lost Vermeer painting' was a fake. It all made very logical sense. Tonight was the night they unveiled the re-discovered masterpiece. Why would anyone want to pay the Golem to suffocate a perfectly ordinary gallery attendant? Hence, the dead man knew something about it, something that would stop the owner getting paid thirty million pounds.

Sherlock had gone to visit the painting himself, disguised as a security guard. Running into the gallery owner, Miss Wenceslas who became perturbed at the sight of Holmes. She wasn't the first, nor would she be the last!

But that hadn't been quite the end of it. Sherlock knew it was a fake, he just didn't know how to prove it beyond reasonable doubt. As Sherlock and John raced around London to put a definitive end to the case they couldn't help but feel uneasy.

The bomber hadn't called. If his last display of power had been any indication, a pattern may not have been viable anymore. With the temperament the Ms. Harper had shown it would be apparent she was not one to be silenced. Admirable, but also very daft.

At night, the two sleuths finally found a clue. A next victim of the Golem, Professor Cairns a consult of Woodbridge's. They had raced to the planetarium where they had tracked the woman to find the Golem mid-murder. It had been a quick and violent fight. Lights flickered and the two found themselves confused in the dark as the Golem snapped the Professors neck and made a launch at them. John was on the giants back and Sherlock struggled for breath as he too was strangled. Just when they thought they had the upper hand they were in a bundle on the ground, Sherlock with John's gun, desperately shooting as the Golem escaped.

And now, things were far worse. It was morning, at the Hickman Gallery. Sherlock stood in front of the Vermeer painting rapidly looking information up on his phone. _Vermeer Brushstrokes. Pigment Analysis. Canvas Degradation. UV Light damage. Delft Skyline, 1600. Vermeer Influences. _Lestrade, John and Miss Wenceslas stood all behind him in waiting. Aware of the eight eyes on his back in turned round in a huff.

"It's a fake. It _has_ to be!" he declared.

"That painting," Miss Wenceslas said with a scowl, "Has been subjected to every test know to science."

"It's a very good fake then." Sherlock quipped back, glaring at her, "You know about this, don't you? This is _you_, isn't it?"

"Inspector," Wenceslas rolled her eyes unamused, "My time is being wasted. Would you mind showing yourself and your friends out?"

But before anyone could move the pink phone in Sherlock's phone began to buzz. Sherlock pulled it from his pocket hastily and whipped it one speaker, the others listening in quietly.

"The painting is a fake." Sherlock spoke into it. _Silence_.

"It's a fake, that's why Woodbridge and Cairns were killed." Still silence, Oh, come on! Proving it's just the detail. The painting is a fake. I've solved it. I've figured it out. It's a fake that's the answer. That's why they were killed!"

And suddenly breathing could be heard on the other side.

"Okay…" Sherlock sighed, "I'll prove it. Give me time. Will you give me time?"

"Ten…" the familiar voice of Ellen Harper echoed from the speaker.

"What did she say?" John frowned.

"Ten." Sherlock repeated.

"Nine…" Ellen spoke once more. Sherlock's eyes narrowed and his breathing fastened.

"It's a countdown. He's giving me time." Sherlock exclaimed, turning back to the painting and letting his eyes flick all over it.

"Geez." Lestrade said behind him, running his fingers through his hair.

"Eight…"

"This woman will die. _Tell_ me why the painting is a fake! _TELL ME!"_ Sherlock turned back to Wenceslas and shouted at her. She went to open her mouth as Holmes changed his mind, holding his hands over her lips to silence her.

"Seven…"

"No, shut up. Don't say anything. It only works if I figure it out." And once more he was facing the painting. John began to pace. Lestrade had his face buried in his hands with nervousness and Wenceslas' expression had changed from annoyance to petrification.

"Six…"

"Come on…" John muttered.

"Five…"

"It's speeding up!" Lestrade exclaimed, urging Sherlock to move faster.

"_Sherlock!_" John shouted his pacing stopped. When finally Sherlock's gaze fell on three tiny white dots of paint in the night sky. His mouth fell open with joy, a cheeky smirk growing.

"Four…"

"In the planetarium!" he turned and plopped the pink phone into John's hands. "You heard it too. Oh, that is brilliant! That is gorgeous!"

"Three…"

"What's brilliant? What is?" John questioned, tension growing. Sherlock whipped out his own phone. Rapidly typing, he walked circles around the others.

"This is beautiful. I love this!" his smile kept growing.

"Two…"

"SHERLOCK!" Lestrade yelled furiously at him. Holmes snatched the pink phone back up.

"The Van Buren Supernova!" he yelled into it. Silence once more. The pause was tedious, until finally Ms Harper's voice spoke normally.

"Well done Mr. Holmes. We're almost at the end now." And the phone rung dead once more. The tension slipped from the air and everyone took a huge sigh.

"And so she lives on…" Sherlock said whimsically, putting the phone into his coat pocket. He pointed back at the tiny dot of paint in the sky, "The Van Buren Supernova, so-called. Exploding star, only appeared in the sky in eighteen fifty- eight."

"So how could it have been painted in the sixteen forties?" John said with a relieved breath. The others all walked closer to look at the painting. Indeed, Sherlock was right.

Lestrade had called a squad car to take Miss Wenceslas into custody, back at New Scotland Yard. John and Sherlock had tagged along. After all, if their conversation earlier had been correct, their consulting criminal's identity could very well be revealed if Wenceslas came clean. And clean she would come.

"You know, it's interesting." Sherlock said to Wenceslas back at Scotland Yard. "Bohemian stationary, an assassin named after a Prague legend, and _you_, Miss Wenceslas. This whole case has a distinctly Czech feeling about it. Is that where this leads?"

Wenceslas avoided eye contact and didn't answer.

"What are we looking at, Inspector?" Sherlock turned to the officer.

"Criminal conspiracy, fraud, accessory after the fact at the very least. The murder of the old woman and all the people in the flats…"

"I didn't know anything about that. All those things. Please believe me." She suddenly confessed. As she was talking Lestrade's desk phone began to ring, "I just wanted my share – the thirty million."

Lestrade hung up the phone without so much as a second glance, as the secrets from Wenceslas spilled forth. She sighed and looked in Sherlock's direction.

"I found a little old man in Argentina. Genius. I mean, really. Brushwork immaculate, could fool anyone." Wenceslas explained.

"Hmmm…" Sherlock disagreed. Again the phone began to ring, Sherlock glanced over with a raised brow. Lestrade cancelled the call again.

"Well… nearly anyone." She turned back to Lestrade, "But I didn't know how to go about convincing the world the picture was genuine. It was just an idea – a spark which he blew into a flame."

"Who?" Sherlock asked sharply.

"I don't know." She shook her head. Lestrade chortled, "It's true! I mean, it took a long time, but eventually I was put in touch with people… _his_ people. Well, there was never any real contact; just messages… whispers."

"And did those whispers have a name?" Sherlock leant in closer to the woman, his expression shifting. Wenceslas paused for a moment, as if unsure how much should divulge. Lestrade, up until this moment had been entirely concentrated on getting information from her. After all she was their first lead to getting Ellen home. But before Wenceslas could open another word, Greg's eyes had glued themselves to something outside his office.

"Ellen."

"Moriarty." Wenceslas and Lestrade spoke over one another. Sherlock looked up at Lestrade with slight annoyance before he realized what was going on. Lestrade didn't acknowledge Wenceslas' confession, as he pushed past his desk and to the office door.

Standing in the hallway, a shock blanket wrapped firmly around her shoulders and other officers fussing over her stood Ellen Harper. Greg's jaw had slacked as Sherlock met his side.

"What in the world…" Holmes muttered. Ellen, with her sister by her side, finally let her eyes fall onto Lestrade's and a small smile formed on her lips. He went to move by her side when Sherlock gripped his arm.

"This isn't over, there's still one more pip." He said in a hushed voice, "And I suspect there's going to be another hostage."


	9. The Great Game - Part Nine

Authors Note:

We are definitely almost at the end of the Great Game now! What a feat! The next 2 chapters should wrap the episode up and then we move onto a Scandal in Belgravia. You have no idea how excited I am for that!

Thank you everyone who has followed, favourited or reviewed this story. It means more than I can put into words. Enjoy the following chapter!

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**The Great Game – Part Nine**

Lestrade walked slowly over, his pacing sturdy and sure. His mind however was racing through a million possible things all streaming from the comment Sherlock has whispered in his ear. When he finally stood in front of Ellen Harper he couldn't hold back a wide grin.

"We're glad that you're okay." He said quietly. She held the blanket around herself a little tighter but smiled back, eyes darting from his face to the floor and back.

"We?"

"Urghhh…" he stuttered, rubbing the back of his neck, "_I'm_ glad. I meant me. I'm just really happy that you're alive."

Ellen nodded in response, but her eyes were blank. She wasn't listening to a word he said. As Greg's mind had wandered, so had hers. She hadn't said much since being found, she gave some semblance of a statement to an officer when medical had cleared her. In the hysteria of it all she wasn't even sure if what she was saying was in English. She had noticed they'd given her shoes though, that was a welcome luxury. She just mostly sat around in shock and staring at the burning wreck of the library. While everyone tried to work out what happened to her, she was processing the same thing. But if there was anyone she could trust to tell her story, Lestrade would be the one.

"Greg..." She said quietly, eyes trained at a window in the distance. Beth was off giving another statement.

"What is it?" Lestrade held a comforting arm out and squeezed gently.

"Can you take my statement?" She shuddered.

"Of course." He nodded and in an instant was ushering her towards his office. As the two entered, another officer took away an olive skinned lady. Left inside the office sat Sherlock Holmes, who refused to leave.

"Mr. Holmes." Ellen stated seeing him. He stood and feigned a smile. Her left hand trembled as she held it out to shake one of his own. He stared at it momentarily, as if analyzing the best course of action and then reciprocated.

"I can't thank you enough for solving all those riddles that maniac set." She steeled herself and looked Holmes dead in the eyes, "I owe you a great debt."

"How much do you know about your kidnapper?" Holmes resumed his seated position.

"As much detail as you can muster." Lestrade sat ready with a recording device.

"Nothing much... At least not what he looks like. But he's definitely a man. Irish. Shrill. He would get in contact with a mobile hooked up to a Bluetooth earpiece. So I would listen to what he said in one ear and then repeat it to you on the other end."

"Did you see any faces at all?" Holmes sat forward.

"Uh, there was another man. He must have been hired to keep me there. He was the one bringing me food and the phone…" _Amongst other things. _Ellen stopped herself. She bit her lip and looked to the floor again, unsure of whether to bring up Othello.

"How did you escape?" Holmes asked bluntly, a coldness to his voice.

"How do you know he didn't just let me go?" Ellen responded to his change in tone.

"Well for one I can tell that you've fired a gun recently, no thanks to the shaking in your hands. Which normally wouldn't indicate that he _just _let you go." Holmes didn't stop there, "And despite the fact your jumper is a very rich red colour, there's a stain right across the front of it similar to what you would see when blood splashes back after you've shot someone."

"Of course, you just deduct these things don't you?" She sighed. Silence filled the air once more, the boys eager to know what else she was going to say.

"He set riddles up for me on the inside. He left me clues every time you had solved one of his. And at first they seemed random, newspaper articles on my food tray and then they escalated. And after I was taken to a library it became clear that I was in this mess because of my father. Some long drawn out revenge plan and it's supposed to end with the his death."

"That's what the message was about." Lestrade interrupted, "When you said your family was in danger."

Ellen nodded.

"So you shot the hired muscle, I assume with his own gun, and made your escape?" Holmes stated definitively. A buzzing noise began from his pocket.

"In the knee, actually." Ellen clarified, "The explosion wasn't me though."

"Clearly." Holmes jerked to his feet again and started to head towards the door.

"Where are you going?" Lestrade stood behind his desk. Holmes whipped out his mobile phone and shook it jovially.

"Still one more pip Lestrade." Sherlock had one foot out the door.

"I got a name." Ellen suddenly called. Holmes stopped in his tracks, "When I shot the man in the knee I got a name out of him."

"And that wasn't something you thought you'd share earlier?" annoyance bubbled under the surface of Holmes' blank exterior.

"You try being knocked out, kidnapped by a loony, hear someone blow up on the other end of a phone... Oh what else? Hmmm... how 'bout possibly have your family threatened to be killed and a gun held at you a dozen times in the past 48 hours. We'll see how great your memory is _then_ Mr. Holmes." Ellen snapped back, standing to her feet and glaring at him. Holmes childishly rolled his eyes.

"And…" the man waited impatiently.

"And the name was Moriarty, you bloody bastard." Ellen shouted. In a huff she barged past him in the door, her feet taking a life of their own. If it killed her she had to get as far away as possible from Sherlock Holmes and his sociopathic idiocy. From behind she could hear the ringing of his phone once more and a groan as Holmes walked in the opposite direction to answer the call.

Ellen was quick to make her escape. She felt a deep pressure in her chest. Like all the fear her body could muster had conspired to destroy her from the inside out. She brushed past the officers standing around desks, past Anderson and Donovan at the water cooler and past her sister still giving a statement.

When she reached the bathroom she flung the doors open and then barred it shut with a trash can. No one else occupied the cubicles. She was all alone; again.

Walking steadily she dared to take in her reflection from the large rectangular mirror at the bathroom sink. She noticed the blood stains on her sweater that Holmes had pointed out, splattered across the red wool. Blood from the now deceased Günther, or at least she thought he was dead after the explosion. Ellen was still coming to terms with the events that had taken place.

Her hands resumed their shaking, but not because she was scared. There was an anger deep inside her, boiling to its limit. Sherlock Holmes, somewhat surprisingly lived up to his asshole reputation. But it wasn't Holmes' little show of insensitivity that took all the blame for her fury. That was reserved specially for the man who had just put her through hell.

Moriarty. Most likely a last name, although could have been one of those foreign first names. The name didn't scare her, nor the prospect of coming against him once more. Hiding through other people and cell phones didn't change the fact that at the end of the day he was still human. Flesh and blood that could suffer like she had. All Ellen's fury could tell her was to stop him before he could hurt her father, before she had to bury another parent.

Her trembling hands gripped around the taps at the sink and twisted until cold flowing water escaped. She promptly began to splash it at her neck and face to clear away the grime the library explosion had left on her. She stared once more at her reflections. Her eyes darkened. Her dark skin, unusually pale. Her curly hair a tangled mess. But none of it made her upset, she didn't look away at the sickly appearance. Instead she reached under her sweater and removed something she had been stashing. A gun. She had had it pried from her grasp back at the library but snuck it back when the officer that took it spoke to her sister. She'd held it close until now. The weight of its power sunk in her hand. She could have kept staring at it until she heard a banging on the bathroom door. As quick as she had removed it, she had hid it once more. Saving the bullets inside in it for one psychotic Irishman.

vvvvvv

"What is it brother?" Sherlock quipped walking away from Lestrade's office and the overly emotional Ellen Harper, his phone pressed to his ear.

"So you've decided to pick up the phone this time." Mycroft scolded.

"If you haven't got anything interesting to say I might as well hang it up." Sherlock bit back.

"Considering you called me first on this matter, that would be rather daft."

"So you found something on Peter Harper."

"Well yes... We'd been suspicious of a mole in the ranks of government for a while now. We had been keeping tabs on Harper and a now deceased member of Parliament."

"Nickolas Night…" Sherlock interjected.

"Yes." Mycroft said with amusement, "After Night's death half a dozen incriminating articles surfaced that suggested he was responsible for selling information about defense to overseas terror cells."

"And Harper's apart of this how then?"

"The documents also detailed Harper's involvement and of a third participant."

"But that doesn't make sense why the bomber would just let her go…" Sherlock thought aloud.

"Pardon?"

"The bomber let Harper's daughter escape."

"When did that happen?" Mycroft questioned.

"About an hour ago. I'm at the station. She says she shot the help and made a run for it, but it doesn't quite add up. Going to all this length and detail to not get caught and the girl just happens to get free before the game is up."

"Sounds premature." Mycroft agreed.

"Does the name Moriarty ring any bells…?" Sherlock questioned. Mycroft faltered on the other end of the phone, "I'll take that as a yes."

"Moriarty is known to us. I'd suggest you don't go sticking your nose where it doesn't belong, brother."

"Oh but that's the only fun place to put it." Sherlock tried to hold back a smile.

"Have you any new information about the West case?" Mycroft changed the subject and with that Sherlock hung up the call.

The whole thing was bubbling over in his brain. For the most of it, it all made sense. Moriarty had been in a partnership with Night and Harper for defense secrets. Harper and Night catch the eye of the government, Moriarty finds out and decides to tie up loose ends. He's a faceless man, doesn't like anyone to have real contact. Night is murdered and it's made to look like a suicide. The same should have happened to Harper, except it didn't. Which means that either Harper still holds some value to the cause or he has something Moriarty needs. So he uses Harper's daughter as leverage to try and get it. Harper must have caved and that's why Ellen is free. But then why did the case feel so personal? Why did he need Sherlock to solve the cases? What tied them all together? That still rattled around in his brain.

He looked at the time on his phone screen; 12:04pm. If his deductions (and possible stalking) were right he needed to make his way to John and the train lines where the Andrew West case had drawn him. Despite his general annoyance with Mycroft, he wouldn't drop a case like this just to spite him. As such, while he waited for the next pip, he had nothing else better to do with his time.

vvvvvv

Pushing the bin out of the way, Ellen waltzed out of the bathroom as if there wasn't a worry in the world. She brushed past Holmes, who was concluding a call and proceeded to stare at his phone.

Beth was finishing up giving her statement to one of the officers so in her hurry, Ellen simply grabbed her sister by the arm and yanked her away towards the elevators.

"Ellen? What the hel–." Beth protested.

"Have you got your car keys?"

"Uhh, well not exactly–."

"What?" Ellen raised a brow as the elevator doors opened. The two got inside.

"Dave's got the car." Beth said staring her sister down.

"So you don't have the keys?" Ellen bit her lip.

"No."

"Then we need to catch a cab." Ellen's brain was ticking over, "Tell me you at least have your phone on you."

"What's going on Ellen?" Beth pulled her mobile out of her coat pocket, but kept a tight grip on it.

"I need to call Dad and make sure he's okay."

"No, I meant what the hell was all of this about. You barely spoke a single word after that place blew up and now we're racing off about town like nothing happened."

"Beth, the man responsible for kidnapping me is about to try and murder our Dad. So hand over that phone or so help me God, his blood will be on your hands." Ellen shouted back. Beth's eyes popped wide open as did her mouth, but she held the phone out without argument.

"What?" Beth gaped.

"Password please." Ellen held the phone out.

"Repeat. What?" Beth entered the password, "Someone's trying to kill Dad? How do you know?"

"Ssssh!" Ellen hushed as the doors to the elevator opened and she attempted to call Peter. They walked out through the main entrance and towards the street for a cab. The phone kept going to voicemail.

"He's not picking up." Ellen began to panic, running her fingers through her hair.

"I'm sure he's fine Elle, really. There could be a myriad of reasons as to why he's not answering." Beth put a friendly hand on her sister's shoulder. Ellen let out a long, deep breath in frustration.

"We're going to his place to check." Ellen stated before hailing the nearest cab. Beth got in without a complaint and while she tried to remain composed, on the inside she might as well be Ellen.

The ride was silent. Ellen couldn't stop fiddling her thumbs the whole drive. Beth kept that same steely composure, while letting a hand rest comfortingly on her older sister's lap.

"So..." Ellen drawled out, "Still with Dave huh?"

"Yeah, that's a long story in itself." Beth chuckled lightly.

"It's only been, what, a week and there's already drama again?" Ellen turned to her sister with a raised brow.

"Well, he may or may not have been paid to help help your kidnapper get hold of your clothes." Beth gestured up and down her sister's red sweater.

"And I repeat, you're still with him?"

"They paid him ten grand."

"Ten grand... for my clothes?" Ellen yet again frowned, "Are you sure this isn't like the time he tried to buy that guitar he thought was one pound but turned out to be a hundred?"

"He seemed pretty adamant." Beth shrugged.

"And he was _pretty adamant_ with the guitar too." Ellen said. Before Beth could respond her mobile began to buzz and the devil himself, Dave, was calling. Ellen almost jumped out of her seat thinking it was their father until she saw the caller ID.

"Hey Dave, what's up?" Beth asked putting the phone to her ear.

"Where are you?" Dave sounded slightly panicked.

"I was at the police station with Ellen, but we're headed to Dads. Why?"

"Good, you're with her." Dave mumbled, "Put me on loudspeaker."

"Okay, done." Beth said, confused. The sisters shared the same look.

"So I drove back to yours, well your sisters, and thought I would wait there until you got back or something. But I get to the front door, cause your car keys have the house keys on 'em you know-."

"Spit it out Dave!" Ellen said in annoyance.

"Oh, hi Ellen."

"Hello Dave."

"We're all really glad you're aliv-."

"Dave!" Beth interjected, "Rest of the story please."

"Okay, yeah." Dave got back to his train of thought, "So I get to the front door and there's these sheets of paper stapled to it. It's like some essay I think. But it's got your name on it Ellen."

"My name on it?" Ellen's brows furrowed, "As in it's for me or-?"

"No. It's by you. You wrote it. It's titled _The Downfall of Cassio_."

"Oh my God..." Ellen's face turned back to one of panic, her eyes wide. She snatched the phone off her sister.

"Oh yeah and your teacher marked it. There's red pen everywhere."

As Dave spoke the sisters had reached the front of their fathers house.

"Hold on one second." Ellen told Dave. Beth paid the cabby and they got out. As if the panic that was retaking Ellen couldn't be stronger, to see the front door to her father's house wide open sent her into overdrive. She rushed up to the house as fast as she could and burst inside.

"Dad!" DAD!" she screamed. Then everything got so much worse. The lounge room, right off the front entrance was a mess. The place had been ransacked, or possibly the scene of a struggle. Beth raced in behind her sister to come across the same sight. She let out a breath of disbelief.

Broken glass from his favourite vase was shattered across the floor. His coffee table with two collapsed legs. Couches overturned. Family photos destroyed. Ellen resumed her hunt for her father around the rest of the house, phone still in hand. Kitchen, clear. Bathrooms, clear. Study, clear. Bedroom, clear.

Peter Harper was nowhere to be found.


	10. The Great Game - Part Ten

Authors Note: 

This is the second last chapter (of the Great Game) ladies and gents. Thanks to all the new followers and favourites.

Can we show some love in reviews? ;)

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**The Great Game – Part Ten**

Sherlock had followed John Watson to Battersea on his examination of the Andrew West case. Impressively Watson had come to the same conclusion that Sherlock had. West wasn't killed in Battersea, despite that being where they found the body. It explained why there was so little blood. John had seemed surprised to see Holmes, to which he assured his friend that he wouldn't give up a case like this just to spite Mycroft. From there Watson and Holmes made their way to the home of Joe Harrison, the brother of West's fiance.

As far as Mycroft had informed him, the missing missile defence plans hadn't left the country. Which meant that whoever had hold of the memory stick couldn't sell it or didn't know what to do with it. Joe Harrison, West's fiance's brother, was one of the most promising leads in the case. Sherlock, much to John's chagrin, had broken into Harrison's flat to snoop. They were there barely a minute before Harrison himself arrived home. The confession came shortly after that. Harrison had hoped to sell the memory stick to pay off a drug debt. Joe had stolen the plans from West and when he was confronted about it accidentally killed his soon-to-be brother-in-law. He got the idea to put West's body on the top of a train, that stopped underneath the flat's window, to take the body far away from the scene of the crime. A neat little idea.

After retrieving the memory stick the boys left Joe Harrison to the police and headed back to Baker Street. The distraction was over and the anticipation for the final pip was eating away at Sherlock. The flat was ice cold. With a coat wrapped around him, Sherlock tried to watch some telly to pass the waiting. It didn't stop his mind from wandering however.

It had occurred to him that all of this had started shortly after Mycroft had come to him with the Andrew West case and the missing missile plans. All this time Sherlock had been curious as to why the kidnapper had involved him and the links were staring him in the face. The man responsible wanted a hold of the memory stick. Sherlock now had a hold of it. However the more curious revelation was where the Harper's fit into it all. Sherlock had deducted early on that Peter Harper had worked for Government defence. The kidnap of his daughter by this _Moriarty_ and the information from Mycroft that Harper had been involved in selling government secrets implied something went sour; He couldn't provide what was asked or possibly changed his mind. More promisingly however was that Harper did have the plans and Ellen Harper's kidnap was leverage. Sherlock's involvement was merely a back-up had Harper fallen through. Moriarty had constructed a two-faced assault, desperate to get his hands on the Bruce-Partington plans. Sherlock deducted Harper's daughter had been freed when he had given in. However, it still didn't answer the why the use of the pips? Why was there one more left?

The pink phone sat next to Sherlock on the armchair. John sat typing away in the background on one of his little blogging sprees, Holmes was sure. Sherlock needed to get in contact with Moriarty somehow. He was curious to know if the man would meet him if he offered the memory stick. He knew he couldn't involve Watson however, he wouldn't approve. He needed to wait until John was gone before he could do anything.

Sherlock's mind fell back to the television in front of him as some showing of Jeremy Kyle began to irk him.

"No, no, no! Of course he's not the boy's father! Look at the turn-ups on his jeans!" he shouted out.

"Knew it was dangerous." John commented as he stopped typing.

"Hmm?" Sherlock turned round to face him.

"Getting you into crap telly." John smirked.

"Hmm. Not a patch on Connie Prince." Sherlock mimicked John's smirk.

"Have you given Mycroft the memory stick yet?"

"Yep. He was over the moon. Threatened me with a knighthood – again." Sherlock lied.

"You know, I'm still waiting." John closed his laptop. Sherlock frowned in confusion, "Waiting for you to admit that a little knowledge of the solar system and you'd have cleared up the fake painting a lot quicker."

"Didn't do you any good, did it?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"No, but I'm not the world's only consulting detective." John quipped back.

"True." Sherlock smiled. John got to his feet.

"I won't be in for tea. I'm going to Sarah's. There's still some of that risotto left in the fridge." he stated, heading for the door. Sherlock remained glued to the television.

"Uh, milk. We need milk." John stopped at the door.

"I'll get some." Sherlock said.

"Really?!"

"Really." Sherlock nodded.

"And some beans, then?" John raised a brow. Sherlock didn't notice.

"Mm." Sherlock nodded once again in response. Chuffed, John hesitated at the door before shrugging and walking down the stairs. Sherlock remained gazing at the telly until he heard the distinct sound of the front down open and close. Instantly he pulled out the computer notebook that was tucked down beside him and opened it on his lap. Already open to his own website, The Science of Deduction, he began to type out a new post.

_Found. The Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect._

He lifted his eyes for a moment in thought and then proceeded typing.

_The Pool. Midnight._

Hitting send he sat back in his arm chair with satisfaction. The precise moment his own phone began to buzz. No caller ID, he took the call excitedly.

"Sherlock Holmes?" the voice on the other end asked instantly. It was familiar. _Ellen Harper_.

"Yes..." he replied curiously. Surely she couldn't be under the control of Moriarty, again?

"This is Ellen Harper." she stated.

"Got a gun held to your head again?"

"Very funny." she feigned amusement, "I'm going to need your help once more and I'm going to need it right now."

vvvvvv

On the floor in front of her was a broken picture frame housing an image of Ellen and Peter together. She must have been a young teenager when the photo was taken. Peter hugged her while she stood beaming holding a trophy for winning a gymnastics competition. Her hair was neatly pulled back into a bun and secured with a bright pink scrunchy. Her matching pink leotard, she remembered, had begun to ride up her backside. It sent a swirl of memories forth that the two had shared. She'd practiced gymnastics up until the age of 16 until she'd busted her knee and had to leave the sport. Up until then she'd been convinced she was going be an professional athlete and even compete at the Olympics. She'd spent weeks crying about it until one day Peter had found her crying in her room and somehow convinced her to come to the video store with them to rent some cheesy action flick. They ended up renting _Silence of the Lambs_ instead and that had been the beginning of a new career prospect for Ellen. Somehow, after having one dream crushed she'd found a love for something new and turned her mind to becoming a criminal psychologist. Peter had been there every step of the way, up until recent years. The sudden jolting thought that she'd never be able to take another photo with him scared her senseless. But she couldn't believe that after everything Moriarty had set up he'd finish the game without a bang.

"Helloooooooooo?!" shouted a muffled voice through the phone still in her hand. The whole time she'd left Dave hanging.

"Yeah, Dave I'm still here." Ellen put the phone back to her ear.

"What's going on?"

"I need you to get down to my Dad's house. I'll text you the address. You need to bring that essay with you and Beth's car."

"Is everything alright?" Dave sounded genuinely concerned.

"Right now...?" Ellen softened, "I'm not sure."

Then she hung up and as promised, sent him the address. Beth rushed up behind her, still in confusion about the whole ordeal.

"We need to call the police." Beth demanded, trying to take her phone back. Ellen didn't let go however.

"No. We're not bringing them into this."

"Are you seeing what I'm seeing?" she gestured around the mess in the living room, "Dad's place is trashed and he's missing, right after you tell me someone is trying to kill him!"

"The police can't fix this." Ellen shook her head and closed the front door, "The man behind this is psychotic. The last time I tried to tell the police about the danger Dad was in he blew up an old lady. What do you think he'll do now, if he hasn't already gone through with it?"

"Oh my god..." Beth covered her mouth as the thought popped into her head, "What if he _is_ already dead?"

"I don't think he is." Ellen shook her head, "My kidnapper wouldn't have left behind the essay otherwise."

"Care to explain that by the way?" Beth's hands dropped from her mouth to cross her body.

"You know how I used to be obsessed with Shakespeare in high-school?" Ellen asked. Beth nodded, "I used to borrow Dad's copy of Othello all the time when I studied it in senior year, so when I graduated he gave it to me as a gift. It had a note and everything on the inside. Then two days ago, in that library I was locked up in, he had my copy. He'd highlighted specific characters dialogue and he'd ripped out the last scenes in the play. Somehow Dad knows him and I think kidnapping me and leaving all the clues he did is his way of getting back. He's going to rewrite the ending of Othello and kill off the character he cast Dad as; Michael Cassio."

"That's insanity." Beth began to pace back and forth.

"Exactly." Ellen bit her lip, "That essay, I remember writing it. It was all about Shakespearean tragedies and how character downfalls are constructed throughout."

"Great..." Beth said, slumping down onto the stairs leading to the second floor, "You think this essay might give us some clues to finding Dad?"

"Maybe..." Ellen sat beside her sister as a sullen look came across her face, "I'm worried that whatever clues there might be, they aren't the kind that will lead us to a rescue mission. If anything, they're going to drag us front and center to a show we didn't want tickets to."

The skies outside began to darken before the steady sound of Dave knocking on the front door could be heard. The Harper sisters hadn't spoken much as they had waited, each caught up in their own plans to rectify the situation. Dave's knock had shocked them back to reality. Beth quickly jumped to her feet and let Dave inside.

"Hey." he smiled half-heartedly. Beth was quick to wrap her arms around him, pull his lanky figure close and bury her head into his chest. When she finally released him, Ellen got to her feet.

"Have you got it?" she held out a hand for the essay.

"Yeah!" Dave pulled out the papers from his back pocket, that were rolled up like a newspaper. As soon as she revealed the front cover she noticed a big A+ scrawled on the front in thick red marker and _'For Ellen' _underneath on the opposite side of the page_._ Ellen sat back down on the bottom of the stairwell and flipped to the next page. The whole thing was defaced. More of the red ink lined the margins and underlined sentences. He'd gone through and highlighted all the faults in the essay's arguments but also ticked next to paragraphs he'd liked. It didn't offer any insight to finding her father in the slightest. All it did was serve as a pesky reminder that Moriarty was always one step ahead. He was always pulling the strings.

She threw the paper on the ground next to her and stormed up the stairs and towards her father's bedroom. Dave and Beth only watched. Upon entering the room she fell straight onto his bed and rubbed her temples. She had to try and think like Moriarty was. That's what she did on a normal working day; get into the heads of criminals. She worked out how their brains ticked, what drove them and sometimes on cases, helped stop them before they could repeat offend. Perhaps it was because she was so close to the case that she was having trouble. She knew she was letting her emotions get the better of her, she just had no way of turning them off if she tried. She knew Moriarty liked to play games. He was a good organizer. Careful not to get caught. Irish. Well studied his victims. He was vindictive too, this whole thing couldn't come about if he wasn't. She knew how to classify him, that wasn't the issue. What she didn't know, was what to do with the minimal information she had. It was then that a bright idea flew into her mind.

"BETH!" Ellen shouted, bounding down the stairs. Beth came out of the living room.

"What?"

"Is there anyway you can do your computer magic and get a hold of Sherlock Holmes' number?" Ellen asked frantically.

"Uhhh... sure." Beth nodded, going off and finding her satchel that had her laptop inside. Ellen and Dave followed.

"You're in luck, I already happened across his number earlier when I was trying to find you." Beth said as she set the laptop up in the kitchen and began tapping and typing, "There." she said as she pulled the number up. Ellen took her sisters phone again and began to dial the number.

"Sherlock Holmes?" Ellen asked as soon as the call picked up.

"Yes..." Holmes replied with a curious twang to his voice.

"This is Ellen Harper."

"Got a gun held to your head again?" Holmes asked in a tone she couldn't determine was serious or mocking.

"Very funny." Ellen replied unamused and continued, "I'm going to need your help once more and I'm going to need it right now."

"How can I be of service?" That tone was definitely mocking.

"I don't have a lot of time to explain things but long story short Moriarty, the man that had me kidnapped, is about to murder my father. Dad's house is trashed and he's nowhere to be found and from everything that happened when I was kidnapped I can tell you that something bad is going to happen soon. I need you to use that brain of yours to stop him before he kills again."

"So why call me instead of the police?"

"You remember the lady he killed, last time I tried to go to them for help."

"Hmm... Duly noted."

"I know you don't particularly like me, and trust me you are about the last person I want to be calling for help right now, but I don't know where else to turn." Ellen explained. Holmes was silent on the other end.

"I work with criminals every day. I've dealt with some of the most horrendous bunch of human beings in my line of work. Serial killers. Sex offenders. The lot. I sit in rooms with them. I talk to them and learn why they do the things they do. Moriarty is the most cunning, manipulating and terrifying one I've ever come across. He takes the things that matter most to you and use them against you. If you can understand for a split second what I'm going through, if the people you care most about aren't by your side right now you should be just as terrified. Because he's involved you in this game where no one is safe."

"Mmmm..." Holmes drawled out reluctantly. He paused again for a while in thought before responding, "I'll message you an address. Meet me there before midnight. I might already have a lead on Moriarty's whereabouts."

"Really?!" she almost didn't believe him.

"Really."

"Thank you Sherlock." Ellen's voice softened, "I mean it."

There was a small grunt of annoyance from the other end of the phone before Holmes hung up and Dave and Beth stared at Ellen in anticipation. Her phone beeped in her hand with the address.

"He's going to help." She said in disbelief still. Then another text came through.

**Come Alone – S.**

Ellen frowned at the message momentarily before looking back up at her sister and Dave. She had hoped to have her sister by her side, in case things took a turn for the worst. At the same time though it would be best to keep her away from danger.

"Everything is alright." she assured the two, "You should both go home. I can handle everything from here."

"I'm not going home." Beth scoffed, "Not now."

"I've got this under control." Ellen insisted.

"Do you know where he is?" Beth folded her arms and raised a brow.

"Can you just trust me that I've got this?" Ellen's voice rose in response.

"Do you know where Dad is?" Beth repeated.

"Far out, you're stubborn." Ellen shouted, "Dave, just take her home. You've both done enough already."

"Don't tell him to take me home!" Beth shouted back, "If I want to go, then I will. He doesn't have a say in it."

"Fine, then stay here. I need to go." Ellen declared as she snatched Beth's car keys from Dave. She walked quickly out the front door and to the street where the car was parked. Beth, however, wasn't done. She chased after her sister and blocked the car door.

"You could be walking into a trap!"

"I'm not. I'm going to meet with Holmes and sort out what the hell is going on. I'm not bringing you along because I don't know where this is going to lead. I don't want to put you in danger if it comes to that. Dad wouldn't forgive me if I did."

Beth stood still against the car door. Her eyes went from Ellen's face to the keys in her hands. Finally she let out a sigh and slowly moved out of the way of the door. Ellen reached forward and held her sister in a tight hug.

"Be. Careful." Beth whispered. The girls pulled away and Ellen nodded. Beth walked back up to her father's house while Ellen got in the car and began to make her way towards the location Sherlock had sent her. It was a while off til midnight, but for the time being she just had to drive to try and get her mind clear and ready for what was about to come.


End file.
